


Project Kraken

by cobaltmoony, Unforth



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Bottom Bucky Barnes, Come Inflation, Consentacles, Double Penetration, Facials, First Aid without Anesthesia, Graphic Depictions of Torture, Honestly Less Angst Than You'd Expect Given the Premise, Hurt/Comfort, Kraken Steve, M/M, Multiple Orgasms, Needles, Non-Consensual Body Modification, Overstimulation, Past Abuse, Past Bucky Barnes/Peggy Carter/Steve Rogers, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Captain America: The First Avenger, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Bucky Barnes, Protective Steve Rogers, Psychological Torture, Slow Burn, Steve thinks bucky is dead, Switch Bucky Barnes, Tentacle Sex, Tentacles, Torture, Two Person Love Triangle, Unrealistic Sex, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, switch steve rogers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-02 12:35:13
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 24
Words: 157,954
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10944618
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobaltmoony/pseuds/cobaltmoony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Unforth/pseuds/Unforth
Summary: It's so cold.So incredibly cold.And as determined as Captain Rogers is to survive, the whiny, weak, all-too-human part of him knows the truth.He's going to freeze to death.And then - crack, crack, crack - there's someone outside his icy prison. Rescue has come. Rogers is going to survive this, he's going to be alright, he's going to see the war through, retrieve the Tesseract, do his duty......see Peggy again......but never Bucky, because Bucky is dead......and the ice over his face fractures.His savior is revealed.A man wearing a hat embroidered with the many-tentacled skull of Hydra.Some things are worse than dying...-Written for the Captain America Reverse Bang. New chapters every other day, last chapter posts July 4th.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my entry to the Captain America Reverse Bang!
> 
> Originally, I had planned to wait through initial claims and take a peek at what was left after the frenzy died down, but when I was going the available art pieces just to satisfy my curiosity I discovered [cobaltmoony's](https://cobaltmoonysart.tumblr.com/) absolutely irresistible piece and I knew I couldn't sit this one out. With the help of [allrealities](http://archiveofourown.org/users/allrealities/profile), I was able to claim the piece I adored, cobaltmoony and I talked about it a ton and hammered out a plot, and here we go!!
> 
> Beta'd by [cyborgtopus](https://cyborgtopus.tumblr.com/) (allrealities) and [trainedunprofessional](trainedunprofessional.tumblr.com). Thanks so much, guys!
> 
> Posting for the Cap RB allows us to start "early" and post by chapters provided we have the last chapter up by our posting date. My posting date is July 4th, 2017; this story starts posting today (June 1st, 2017) and I will post a chapter every other day - which is a schedule I hope will work? I'm not actually sure yet - my first draft isn't finished and so I'm not positive how many chapters long it'll be. If I'm short on chapters, I'll wait and post the last chapter on 7/4; if I have more 18 chapters (that's one every other day), I'll post however many are left on the 4th.
> 
> Current draft is 64,000 words long. I expect the final to be over 100k. I have a full outline and I'm on track to finish on time. :)
> 
> I know the tags are a little dark - I promise this fic isn't as dark as it looks. Also, because it's canon divergent, there was no way I could "cast" existing characters into roles, and as such there are a fair few original characters floating around, but I've tried to keep them in the background - I've never written fanfic using OCs before and it's definitely weird to me. If you have any questions or worries related to specific triggers, please let me know.
> 
> The first few chapters are the worst. 
> 
> Oh, and, uh...my Spanish is terrible and I'm sorry. I did my best!

_Cold._

_God, it’s cold._

_So cold._

_So so so so cold._

_Suck it up, Steve. I’ve got more important things to do than listen to you whine. Where there’s life, there’s hope. Never stop fighting._

_What’s the last thing I remember?_

Images formed in Rogers’ mind.

Fighting against Herr Schmidt.

Pursuing Schmidt to his plane.

Ignoring the brilliant light of the Tesseract.

Schmidt touching the Tesseract and dissolving into his component atoms.

The Tesseract burning through the metal of the plane and plummeting into the ocean. As far as Rogers knew, it might have seared a path straight to the center of the earth.

_At least Schmidt got his just desserts. At least he’s dead._

_Good riddance. Both to him and that horrid chunk of…whatever the heck the Tesseract is._

_No, Steve. Such thoughts are beneath me. Schmidt was the mission; retrieving the Tesseract was the mission. I succeeded at parameter one. Schmidt is dead and without him Hydra is broken. I failed at parameter two._

_What happened after the Tesseract fell?_

Rogers couldn’t remember.

_I need to assess my situation and retrieve the Tesseract. I have to complete the mission._

Rogers opened his eyes.

_Oh God._

They wouldn’t open.

_Where am I?_

Rogers raised his arms.

_What’s happening?_

They wouldn’t move.

_Why is it so cold?_

Rogers took a deep breath.

 _I shouldn’t panic. I can’t_ afford _to panic. I don’t have time for your hysterics, Steve. Nothing is more important than duty. Focus on what I can do. Ignore everything that accomplishes nothing, adds nothing, facilitates nothing. But it’s so cold. And I can’t move. And I can’t see. And I can’t…_

His chest felt constricted, enclosed, and he could scarce draw air.

_I can’t breathe. I can’t breathe! I’m going to die here._

_No. Calm. I am in control of my mind. I am in control of my body. I am in control of this situation._

_What do I feel?_

Cold.

Other _than cold, Steve._

The cloth of Rogers’ uniform was stiff and frigid against his skin. A muscle in his chest twitched. Cold saturated him, seeped into every joint, tensed every muscle, brittled every bone, made every breath a struggle. His thoughts moved sluggishly, whispers of juvenile panic a constant distraction from the task at hand.

_I can’t move my arms, I can’t open my eyes, I can’t inflate my chest._

_What_ can _I do?_

With a semblance of calm, Rogers did an inventory of his body. Whatever bound him did so in an awkward position, his body bent nearly in half, his hands wrapped around...something…and his legs bent beneath him. He felt drained, enervated, sluggish, as if something sapped his strength, sapped his willpower, sapped his life force.

_Could the Tesseract do that? Maybe it’s near?_

Rogers could remember a time when weakness had been a constant, daily fact of life. Once, he’d not had the least hope of ever waking up feeling strong, feeling capable. Once, he’d taken it for granted that he’d have to find a way to get around life’s challenges because he couldn’t muscle his way through them. Since the serum was administered, Rogers’ life had been different. Weakness was temporary. When he escaped this frozen prison, he’d be Captain America again, he’d defeat Nazis again and, God willing, he’d help the United States and the world recovery from the tragedy and catastrophe of World War 2.

 _No. I won’t be Captain America_ again _when I’m free. I’m Captain America_ now _. Even entrapped, I have my duty, my mission, my responsibilities._

 _And I_ can _live up to the expectations placed on me. I_ must _live up to the promise of this identity, the hope that so many millions of placed in me._

_I can’t let them down._

_I’m never free of myself. I’m never free of who I am._

A puny, wistful part of him considered how nice it would be to lay back and allow the world to be somebody else’s problem.

 _How_ dare _you, Steve? I took an oath – I took multiple oaths – to defend my country, to defend those who can’t defend themselves. I, of all my worthy peers, was given the chance of a lifetime to be remade. If I squander that, if I behave selfishly, if I put my own silly desires before the life-and-death needs of others, I am no better than those I profess to hate._

_Stop distracting me._

_I have to concentrate._

_I have work to do._

Aside from the ice binding him, Rogers felt no damage to his body, no twinge of pain speaking to injury.

Had some new weapon been deployed against him?

Schmidt’s jet had been flying north; with Schmidt dead, had Rogers tried to pilot it?

With the hull integrity compromised by the Tesseract, the plane had most likely been in freefall; had Rogers found a parachute and ditched to the ice-floe-filled waters below?

_Dammit, Steve, why can’t I remember?_

_I have to focus._

_One sense at a time._

Smell.

Cold.

_Gee, helpful, thanks. What does cold even smell like?_

_This. It smells like this._

Rogers had no good answer to that, so he let it go. Nothing. He could smell nothing.

Sight.

Also nothing. Utter blackness. There wasn’t even a glimmer of light against his eyelids. Scrunching them more tightly closed, he tried to open them again, but all he succeeded at doing was flickering imaginary bursts like fireworks across his blanked vision.

Taste.

Morning breath.

Rogers’ stomach rumbled.

_How long have I been here? How long has it been since I had anything to eat, anything to drink?_

_The human body can survive for three days without water, seven at the absolute outside. The human body can survive for up to 70 days without food._

_Shut_ up _, Steve. These observations are not helpful and I_ am not human.

_Arrogant, much?_

_There’s no knowing how long I can go without sustenance so it’s not worth dwelling on._

_I hope I don’t find out how long I can go without food. That sounds…unpleasant._

_But I’ll survive. I’ll definitely survive._

_If hubris was edible…_

_Focus!!_

Touch.

Rogers could feel the cloth of his uniform against his body, the grate of ice against his skin, the heavy material of his boots binding his feet. Struggling to move infinitesimally, Rogers rubbed the pads of his fingers over whatever was beneath them. At first all he felt was cold, but with movement came traces of warmth, and with warmth came sensation. There was ice, definitely, a thin film of water covering something solid and frozen, but he thought there was metal, too. Maybe the airplane, or perhaps his shield. He tried the same movement with his other hand, with the same result. Not his shield, then: it was too small for him to feel it with both fingers at once, given the position he was in. Whatever was behind his back and thighs was solid but not ice, not cold. Shifting experimentally, he felt whatever it was give slightly.

_Like a cushion compressing under my weight._

Flickers of incomplete memory taunted him.

_Sitting in the pilot seat of Schmidt’s plane, clutching the controls, trying to navigate, trying to destroy it before it could be used as a weapon._

_My duty is…was…_ is! _...to protect the innocent lives that Schmidt sought to destroy. My duty was to die in the attempt._

_If I’m alive…_

_Then my duty is…_

Hearing.

Concentrating, Rogers listened.

There was nothing to hear.

_I’m gonna need a rain check on that dance._

_Alright. A week, next Saturday, at the Stork Club. Eight o’clock on the dot. Don’t you dare be late!_

_Not helping, Steve!_

_I’m going to miss my date with Peggy. She’ll be sad, even more sad than when…_

_…I may have already missed my date…_

_Bucky is dead._

_And I am dead._

_I hope she finds happiness._

_Enough maudlin bull! If I can apply myself, if I can stop this useless rumination, I can survive this!_

_I can do this all day!_

_I can—_

A dull sound, nothing like the useless noisy nonsense his brain spewed, intruded on Rogers’ thoughts. The first time he heard it, he thought it his imagination, but it repeated again, again, again, a rhythmic thump, punctuated by occasional cracking sounds.

The ice was fracturing.

Something was striking the ice.

Struggling, Rogers tried to open his mouth. His chin struck moisture and ice. Frigid water beaded over his chin, down his throat – _see, water! I’m not going to die, not like this!_ – along his neck, pooled in the hollow at the base of his throat. He tried to open his mouth again, again, as fatigue and the cold ate at his awareness.

_How long was I unconscious? How long can I survive these conditions? How long before I pass out?_

_Long enough, Steve. I have to keep fighting. I have to keep struggling. I have to stand up again, even if it’s just to get knocked down again._

Locking the tempo of the _tap-tap-tap_ against the ice in his head, Rogers imitated the rhythm, opening and closing his mouth with each thud. Slowly, the space around his chin grew, until he could flick his tongue out and lap at the ice, until he could open his mouth, until he could—

“Hey!” he croaked. Despite the droplets of water that had moistened his mouth, he was parched, his voice reedy and thin. “Can you hear me?”

Only the repetitive noise answered him. He kept at it, melting the ice around his face millimeter by millimeter, as the sound grew louder and more distinct. With each whack he could hear the crystalline sound of ice shattering.

“I’m in here!”

The sounds stopped. The ice binding his head made a meaningless blur of the sound of people shouting, but there were definitely people, there was definitely rescue. Blinking against the frost thick in his eyelashes, Rogers worked his eyes open, and where there’d been naught but oblivion, he could now make out faint blue-tinged light, distorted and warped and broken by thick layers of ice.

“Help!”

_Really, Steve? Help? That’s what you can come up with to say?_

_I don’t want to freeze to death! There’s nothing wrong with having a survival instinct,_ Rogers _._

Something dark slammed into the ice directly over his face, then pulled back, slammed down again, again, each strike accompanied by the grind of metal on ice. Rogers couldn’t help but blink at each blow, and as the ice encapsulating him fractured, a pathetic trembling of nerves had him hoping like hell that whoever wielded the tool – an ice pick, probably – stopped before they drove it through his face.

They didn’t seem inclined to do so. The film between him and the world was so thin now that he could see light gleaming off the tip of the pick.

_Tell them to be careful!_

_God, you whine a lot, Steve. Zip your lip!_

The ice over Rogers’ face shattered. Fresh air, crisp and pure and spectacular, flooded his nose, his mouth, and he gasped in an inhalation that scarce swelled his still-bound chest. A man stood over him. A quilted coat hung to his knees, fur-lined boots bound his calves, thick gloves hid his hands, a scarf wrapped around his chin, misted goggles hid his eyes, and on his head…

…he wore a thick wool hat embroidered in the center in bright red thread: a tentacled skull.

Hydra.

“No!”

“Yes, Herr Rogers,” said an unfamiliar voice accented in German. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Struggling uselessly against his icy prison, Rogers tried to get a hand free, tried to move, tried to even get enough breath to dissipate the vertigo that the rush of fresh air had given him, but he could do nothing but breathe and watch.

The man gestured toward something Rogers couldn’t see.

_Remember when I suggested that it might be nice if we could let go and die in the ice and you told me to shut up and keep fighting?_

Another man stepped into view. He bore a flaming torch in one hand and in the other, held close to the fire, a syringe. The orange light made the liquid within appear afire.

_Did you forget that there are fates worse than death?_

Rogers’ struggles intensified, but he was weakened, helpless, useless. How many times had he lay on the ground unable to fight back? How many times had he felt fury burn like bile in his throat? Too many, far too many, and he’d dared to think, dared to hope, that the serum ensured that he’d never have to feel that way again.

_What was it the Doc said?_

_Don’t be a perfect soldier. Be a good man._

The man flicked his syringe and came within arm’s reach of Rogers, if only he could move his arms. Only the ice over his face was thinned, though, the rest of his body encapsulated, and there was nothing he could do.

_I forgot the most important lesson._

Rogers’ eyes slipped shut.

_Acceptance is not the same as resignation, not the same as helplessness, not the same as surrender._

Pressure pushed at the skin of his neck, followed by the faintest prick of pain, and the unpleasant feel of liquid swelling his muscle tissue.

“Heil Hydra!”

_This isn’t the end._

_This is only the beginning._

Awareness faded to the quiet, restful solitude of oblivion.

* * *

“J-154.”

Cognizant.

“J-155.”

Calm.

“J-156.”

Poised.

“K-001.”

_Oh God, there’s more!_

“K-002.”

Clinical.

“K-003.”

Detached.

“K-004.”

It had never crossed Rogers’ mind that something could hurt _more_ than when Dr. Erskine administered the super soldier serum.

That had been mind-alteringly painful, more excruciating than Rogers, in a lifetime of getting routinely beaten up, had been able to comprehend, more excruciating than Rogers’ mind had been able to internalize and actually remember.

Rogers hadn’t _wanted_ to remember that degree of pain, and it was a mercy that he didn’t fully.

“K-005.”

But no.

There was no mercy here.

And this...

This was worse.

“K-006.”

This was much worse.

“K-007.”

Only locking his jaw kept Rogers from screaming. A blindfold blocked his vision of what was being done to him and who was doing it. There was never any warning where the next stab or poke or incision would be, when the next electrocution or burn or unidentifiable, tormenting sensation unlike anything he’d felt before would come.

“K-008.”

Rogers strained to hear every sound, focused on interpreting what he heard as a means of distracting himself from anguish. There were rustles, clinks, pokes, thuds, the staticky sound of electricity, and a tearing sound that some horrified yet dispassionate part of his mind identified as the ripping of his flesh.

At meaningless intervals, a voice speaking in German counted off.

“K-009.”

“K-010.”

“K-011.”

They’d started at A-001.

There was no end in sight.

When they got to Z, they’d probably return to A.

They’d go through the alphabet over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over and over until they broke him or he talked.

But they hadn’t asked him a single question.

_Even if they do I will never talk._

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, oh my_ God _that_ really _hurt, everything hurts! Make it stop, make it stop, I’ll do anything, make it stop, make it—_

_Shut your Goddamn flytrap, Steve._

_I got through the serum treatment despite the agony because I had to, because the only way forward was through, because the only way to achieve my potential, achieve my goals, was to survive._

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it—_

_There’s no difference between then and now._

_But it—_

_The only way to ensure that justice is served is for me to survive. The purpose of my previous mission was to destroy Hydra. There’s a good chance my friends, my allies, the Commandos and everyone I care about, as well as millions of innocent people, think Hydra has been defeated._

_But—_

_If I die here, if I succumb to this, if I talk, I will never get the chance to tell them the truth._

_But hell does it hurt._

_It hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—_

“L-002.”

Tears leaked from the corners of Rogers eyes and soaked the blindfold. When they’d first bound him to the gurney, he’d struggled against the restraints at his ankles, his wrists, his pelvis, his shoulders, his forehead, strained ineffectively with all his considerable might, but hours had passed – hours _must_ have passed, _please_ let it have been hours and not mere minutes made eternal by agony – and Rogers no longer had the strength to fight his bindings.

“L-003.”

_“Don’t have the strength.”_

_What the hell kind of Captain America are you, Steve?_

“L-004.”

_I can do this._

_The clamps are slick with blood. With how much pain I’m in, I’d never notice if I dislocated or broke something in an effort to escape. A pail of water beside the ocean. This is my opportunity!_

_But I can’t._

_It hurts so much._

_Dammit, Steve, quit whining and_ fight _._

_I can’t. I can’t. I can’t fight this. I can’t escape. Hydra has me and they’re never going to let me go. They’re going to torture me, break me, they’re going to…_

_…do what they did to Bucky?_

What _did they do to Bucky?_

 _I can’t give up. I still have to make them pay, for torturing him, for trying to turn him, for taking him away from me, for taking_ everything _away from me._

_Bucky survived – that, he survived._

_I will survive to._

_And I will_ destroy _them._

“L-005.”

Gritting his teeth, the taste of copper and bile thick in his mouth, Rogers knotted every muscle and pulled up from the table. The pain suffusing him intensified – _how can it possibly intensify, how does it keep getting worse and worse? Oh God, oh God, oh God – shut_ up _Steve_ – and a sound ripped from him, a sob, a scream, a grunt, as he pushed himself to his utmost limit, past his utmost limit.

_I can, I can, I can, I can, I—_

“Sedative.”

Something thick and sharp – _that’s a needle, you idiot_ – jabbed into Rogers’ neck and fluid like ice – _oh God, maybe this is all a hallucination, maybe I’m still trapped in the ice, delirious from lack of food and water, dying of hypothermia and deprivation_ – coursed through Rogers’ veins.

_Focus._

_Pick a spot and focus._

The needle yanked roughly out of him, tearing at the skin of his jugular. Hot blood, pumped from his heart directly to the wound, coated his skin, warmed the metal gurney supporting him, contrasted horrifically with whatever they’d injected him with. Twisting against the ankle and wrist cuffs, Rogers concentrated on that single wound in a vain attempt to ignore all the places on his body that howled agony.

_My stomach!_

_My belly button!_

_My testicles!_

_My knees!_

_My fingernails!_

_My scalp!_

_The balls of my feet and the backs of my thighs and my buttocks and my nose and my—_

_And a single wound in my neck with my life’s blood trickling out of it._

His body was ice.

Rogers still strained – he thought he still strained – but his muscles were limp and despite every command from his brain to _fight, fight, fight_ he collapsed against the table.

_No. No! Don’t give up! Don’t surrender! Keep fighting you pathetic, lazy, wimpy, asthmatic son of a bitch. Get up! Punch the bastard again! You gonna let them knock you down like this? You gonna let them see you bleed?_

_It doesn’t hurt._

_It doesn’t._

_I would do anything to make them stop._

The first sob tore out of him.

_Never surrender._

“L-006.”

_Never let them knock you down._

Another sob ripped at his throat, filled his mouth with half-clotted blood and liquid bile that burned as badly as…

…as badly as whatever they were doing to his elbow, _did they pour acid on my elbow? I can_ feel _my flesh dissolving, oh God, oh God, stop, stop, stop, stop, stop stop stop stopstopstopstopstopstopst—_

He couldn’t stop crying.

“Note: Dose of sedative inadequate to sedate Test Subject 05641. Increase dose to ten milligrams.”

The needle stabbed into Steve’s neck again, and though it was the merest prick compared to the agony of having chill air blowing against exposed muscle and skin and bone, it was too much, finally too much, and he screamed as burning cold exploded through him, incinerated him, and mercifully, mercilessly, blanked his awareness.

“L-00…”

* * *

_stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop_

“Sto…p...”

Rogers lolled awake, fumbling, weak, useless. His mouth tasted foul, and all he could smell was blood and the astringent sting of disinfectant.

“¿Estás bien?”

Usually, after an injury, even one that reduced him to unconsciousness, Rogers woke up healed. Sometimes he was alarmed by how _well_ he felt, considering the wounds he’d sustained – _no I wasn’t alarmed by that, what a ridiculous reaction that would be, stop talking like you control what I think, Steve_ – but he was a super soldier in every respect: faster, stronger, smarter, better, and capable of healing at an accelerated rate.

Except, apparently, now.

Rogers felt _terrible_.

“¿Guero?”

Flopping onto his side, Rogers spit the disgusting contents of his mouth onto the floor and blinked gunk from his eyes. His limbs were ungainly, unresponsive. One arm slapped limply to the floor and agony jolted a gasp from Rogers. The other remained pinned beneath his side despite his efforts to shift it out of the way. Poured cement rubbed gritty against his skin. Blurry vision showed him a tiny cell, separated from adjacent cells by metal bars. A hole in the floor nearby presumably served as the head, and a gaunt man dressed in rags leaned on the cage and stared concern at Rogers.

“Don’t speak…no hablo…español…”

“Fuck!” said the man brightly.

Rogers blinked at him in confusion.

“Solo se una palabra en ingles.” The words were gibberish but the apologetic note communicated clearly. In an obvious, incomprehensible attempt to clarify his meaning, the man held up a single finger. “Fuck,” he added helpfully.

“Fuck,” Rogers agreed, rolling back onto his back. Tracks of fluorescent lighting gleamed overhead, glaring, and a soft buzzing drilled into Rogers’ ears, into his brain.

_No. I’m fine. This is fine. I’m not dead. From a cage, escape is possible. I’ll be healed by tomorrow, and then…_

With a groan, Rogers rolled to his hands and knees and crawled to one side of his cage. The bars enclosed a square maybe six feet to a side; Rogers suspected that if he lay down straight he’d whack his head.

“No escapamos,” the man said, enunciating slowly as if speaking to an idiot.

“There’s always an escape,” Rogers replied, grabbing the bars and shaking them. They were so firmly placed that they didn’t even rattle, and pain thrummed through Rogers. Blood splattered on the floor and vision swam into focus as he stared at his arms.

The bone showed through at his elbow.

Nausea twisted his stomach as pain seared through his limbs and he tumbled back, writhing.

_Why hasn’t it healed yet? Have they found a way to negate the effect of the serum? Everything hurts. I forgot how much pain it was possible to feel._

“No,” repeated his fellow prisoner. “Hay una manera de escapar.” Panting through the agony – _I will not scream again, I will not!_ – Rogers rolled to look at the man, who gave him a sympathetic half-shrug. “Muerte.”

_That sounds like morte in Italian…_

_The only escape is death?_

_What kind of melodramatic BS is that?_

“I’m getting out of here.” Rogers’ confidence was damaged by the quaver in his voice. “And so are you. We’re not going to die here. Not here. Not now. Not today. I—”

German crackled over the loudspeakers. “Retrieve Test Subject 05641. Room Assignment: 1.”

The man made the sign of the cross over his chest. “Lo siento.” Boot soles rang against the concrete, every step measured and even. “¿Cual es tu nombre?”

“I don’t… _I don’t speak Spanish_ ,” Rogers snapped.

_Steve! Get a hold of yourself! The man is a prisoner, too, has surely been beaten and starved and tortured and he’s just trying to help, just trying to make a connection!_

“Mi nombre Carlos Gómez Zapatero-Lorca.” As the bootsteps came closer, the man spoke more quickly. “Soy de Calahorra, en España.” Rogers shook his head. He didn’t understand. The man pointed at his own chest. “Mi nombre _Carlos_.”

_His name, you moron. He’s saying his name. Calahorra is a city in Spain._

“I’m Steve Rogers,” Rogers replied. There wasn’t a trace of recognition on the man’s face, for which Rogers was grateful. He didn’t want anyone to see how far _Captain America_ had fallen. “I’m from Brooklyn, New York. Uh…the United States – los Estados Unidos.”

“Encantado de conocerle, Señor Rogers,” the man said solemnly.

Four soldiers stopped outside the door to Rogers’ cell.

_When they open the door, I can lunge for the nearest, get his sidearm, and—_

They aimed a weapon at him through the bars.

“Yo, Carlos? Next time I see you, call me Steve,” Rogers said, donning cockiness like armor.

The gun fired with a _pfft_ and a dart hit him in the neck.

“ _Steve_ ,” echoed Carlos thoughtfully. “Esteban?”

“Close…enough…” Rogers mumbled as the familiar icy chill of the sedative they used fuzzed his vision and numbed his fingers. “Watch it…call you…Chuck…”

The sound of Carlos’ laughter sang Rogers back to unconsciousness.

* * *

Helpless, Rogers jerked and twisted against his restraints, a scream tearing at his throat.

“Increase R-014 by an additional 10 milligrams.”

When they’d started, R-014 had been agony, a needle jammed beneath his finger nail, something horrible injected into him, pain coursing through his veins, eating at his brain, forcing blood from his nose, his mouth, the corners of his eyes, his ears.

It had been terrible.

But Rogers had been able to weather the torture with a modicum of equanimity.

Fire burned through every vein, every capillary, every cell, and Rogers screamed again, sound choking out and dying as blood caught in his throat.

He was so utterly beyond equanimity.

“Increase R-014 by an additional 20 milligrams.”

 _No_! Rogers tried to howl, but there was way he could speak. His fingers clenched involuntarily, every muscle from the arch of his foot to the arch of his nostrils tensed, and his body went rigid as poison or acid or _whatever the hell it was_ tore him apart from the inside.

_Don’t beg – don’t ask them not to – that’s what they want that’s what they want they must want something why don’t they ask me questions why don’t they demand information why do they just keep hurting me and hurting me and—_

“Introduce 25 milligrams of H-002.”

There was a pause, loud with his strained breaths, the wet slap of his heaving, sweaty, bloody flesh against the gurney. The world was darkness – there would never be light again – and pain and an eternity of wondering _what Hydra wanted_. No one asked him questions. No one said anything to him. There was no telling how much time passed during his examinations, between his examinations, over the hours he spent in his cage, but hour by hour and day by day and year by year – _no, it can’t have been that long, can it? It feels like it, it feels like eons_ , _don’t you dare tell me to be reasonable Rogers, we are so far past anything even vaguely resembling reasonableness_ – they tested and refined, tortured him with different stimuli, always testing, prodding, searching.

 _They don’t want anything I_ know _, they want what I am._

_And there’s absolutely no way I can deny that to them._

_Unless I—_

A smell overpowered that of his own blood for the first time, Rogers thought, in days. Human waste. The disgusting aroma was thick in his nose, and even as pain continued to wrack him, one by one Rogers’ muscles went lax. His autonomous responses to agony failed. Even the valves and sphincters that he controlled so automatically he didn’t think about their functioning failed. Urine ran down where his legs met the table and he felt like he _melted_ against the gurney. His eyes slipped closed, his breathing slowed, his heart beat dropped to a crawl.

“Subject 05641 rendered unconscious at 17:02 hours.”

 _I’m not unconscious_.

“Increase R-014 by an additional 50 milligrams.”

_No no no no no no—_

Steve couldn’t scream. He couldn’t struggle. He couldn’t resist. His heart rate and breathing scarce quickened.

If he could have begged for mercy, begged them to stop, begged for the chance to tell them _anything they wanted to know_ , begged for death, he would have.

“Continue administering 50 milligram doses of R-014 at 5 minutes intervals for the next 60 minutes.”

Terror howled desperately in his thoughts, the faintest whine escaping his throat as he sighed out each incapacitated breath. The words scarce meant anything to him beyond the certainty that this excruciating pain was going to go on and on and on and on and—

Another burst of chemical anguish incinerated him.

_There must be some way to make them stop, there must be, there must be, why won’t they tell me what they want?_

_Why? Why? Why? Why? Why?_

_Is this what they did to Bucky?_

The thought brought the first glimmer of reason that Steve had felt in what felt like forever. The pain was beyond excruciating, his vision washed incandescent white, his mind scarce able to process, but the memory of Bucky went deeper than sanity, deeper than sense, penetrated him, encompassed him. Bucky was _part_ of Steve.

The next injection surged through him, but Steve clung to the memory of the love of his life as a drowning man did to the wreckage of his ship.

_They’re hurting Bucky._

_They don’t get to do that._

_Arms – have to lift._

He tried to lift his arms.

_Legs – have to support me._

He tried to stand.

_Lungs – have to breathe._

He tried to take a deep breath.

Words assaulted him, distant, incomprehensible – _of course they’re incomprehensible, that’s German, not English_ – and another needle struck him and the pain receded slightly, burning replaced by the icy touch of what he prayed was death.

_No. I can’t die yet. I have to save Bucky._

His obliterated vision formed into a hazy memory of light glaring from snow and Bucky’s face disappearing into the distance beneath him.

_Wait. I think...maybe...I think Bucky is dead._

Steve sobbed.

“Another _50_ milligrams of sedative!” At least the German was resolving into sense again – _why do I think that’s a good thing?_ – and the speaker sounded near-frantic.

Ice pumped through Steve’s veins.

“Where...” His lips were leaden, his jaw locked. muscles knotted. Something dry flaked from the insides of his cheeks, coated his throat, made his voice hoarse and broken. “Where’s...Bucky?”

“ _100 milligrams_!”

Steve scarce felt the needle penetrate his skin.

He felt nothing else for a long, long time.

_Thank God._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts on June 3rd, 2017.


	2. Chapter 2

A soothing voice murmured a continuous stream of melodic nonsense that lulled Steve gently awake. The closer to awareness he drifted, the more confused he grew that he couldn’t sort the sounds into words, and he thought their incomprehensibility should alarm him, but it didn’t.

_Not Steve. Steve is a ninety pound weakling 4Hed five times. I am Captain Rogers, Captain America. Steve would have begged those Hydra officers to stop, but I didn’t. I didn’t._

_Not for lack of trying._

_Leave me alone, Steve. I have better things to do than listen to you._

_Maybe you should try listening to me from time to time. I got us through the first 25 years of our life just fine._

_You call that sorry excuse for an existence ‘fine?’ Getting beat up, wheezing my..._ your _...way through minimal physical exertion, and pining after Bucky while he chased every tail that wiggled in his direction?_

_I was a good man. You were a good man._

_What are you now, Captain Rogers?_

Light pressure brushed against Rogers’ bare side and he flinched, alertness crystallizing his senses to a semblance of clarity.

Relief flooded him, unclenched something tight in his chest that he hadn’t realized had tensed, as he felt rough concrete abrade his back.

He was back in his cell.

He wasn’t on the gurney.

A sob burst from him uncontrollably, even his shame not enough to quell it. Curling in on himself – _everything hurts, everything still hurts_ – Rogers – _Steve!_ – pressed his face against his arms and cried. The pressure returned to his side, gentleness nearly incomprehensible after eons of pain, and the words being said to him resolved into identifiable sounds, if not into anything he understood.

“A la nanita nana, nanita ella, nanita ella. Esteban tiene sueño – bendito sea, bendito sea.”

The melody was haunting, calming, and Carlos’ hand on his back was...

... _humanizing_...

_Am I allowed to cry?_

_Captain Rogers can’t cry._

_Why not? Who’s to see? Who’s to object? Who’s to judge?_

“A la nanita nana, nanita ella, nanita ella. Esteban tiene sueño – bendito sea, bendito sea.”

There were other prisoners in the cages – Steve caught glimpses of them when he was led by their prison cells or they were dragged by his – but only Carlos was close enough for conversation, such as the language barrier allowed. Sometimes, Steve could hear the other prisoners speaking softly to each other. Sometimes, they screamed. Sometimes, they cry.

Steve…Rogers…Steve…didn’t think worse of them for crying.

Could there be any more miserable a situation for a prisoner of war? To cry confronted with such horrors was…was…

…was _human_.

_Exactly, Steve. And I’m not human._

_Not sure about that but you sure are tiresome. And repressed._

_Steve_ had spoken to the Howling Commandos about what had happened to them while they’d been imprisoned near Klagenfurt. Intellectually, he’d understood the horror of the testing and experimentation that Hydra scientists had done on the men who would become his closest friends. Emotionally, he’d been sympathetic when Morita had broken down crying describing the torture to which he’d been subjected, shocked when even Dugan teared up talking about it.

Steve hadn’t thought worse of _them_ for crying.

_Also human, Steve._

_Not helping, Rogers._

“A la nanita nana, nanita ella, nanita ella. Esteban tiene sueño – bendito sea, bendito sea.”

Everything they described, Steve had now experienced. He understood their pain intellectually, emotionally, physiologically, viscerally, and no matter his dignity, his sense of propriety, his craving to save face before…no one…he couldn’t keep from crying. He hadn’t cried when a gang had nearly beaten him to death, hadn’t cried when his mother died, hadn’t cried when he was denied admittance to the army repeatedly, hadn’t cried when Bucky enlisted, hadn’t cried through all the tough years of his life.

Steve… _no!_ _Rogers_ hadn’t cried when Bucky had died.

“A la nanita nana, nanita ella, nanita ella. Esteban tiene sueño – bendito sea, bendito sea.”

Sobbing was cathartic. He cried for himself and the wounds he’d sustained, but also for his mother, for Bucky, for every person trapped with him, for every person already killed whose loved ones would never know more than _it is my sad duty to confirm that your loved one is missing and presumed to have been killed in action_. So many lost sons and daughters, not just orphan Steve Rogers, not just Bucky and the terrible home life he couldn’t escape fast enough, but every person here, stolen from the people they loved.

_How many of his children has Carlos sang this lullaby too?_

_How many nights do they fall asleep crying because they’ll never see him again?_

“A la nanita nana, nanita ella, nanita ella. Esteban tiene sueño – bendito sea, bendito sea.”

Steve wept, and Carlos sang to him, until he had no more tears left in him, until sleep came, rejuvenating and restful. He wasn’t sedated, he wasn’t unconscious, the pain of his wounds was fading, and he felt _whole_.

_No one would think worse of me for crying. I know they wouldn’t. Because they understand. Everyone who matters worth a damn understands._

_Bucky would have understood._

_I’m allowed to feel. I’m allowed to be human._

_I’m allowed to be_ Steve _, the guy from Brooklyn, another poor sap who just wants to go home._

_I don’t have to pretend to be the perfect soldier, not anymore. My war is over._

_No._

_This is my war now._

_I couldn’t save Bucky, but I’ll save Carlos. I’ll save them all._

_And I’ll save myself._

* * *

_“Aw, come on, Steve, you don’t want to talk about that shit,” Bucky scoffed, the familiar smirk on his lips belied by the deadness in his eyes._

_“Buck…” Steve shook his head. He didn’t want to push, but at the same time…_

_“It’s done,” Bucky insisted. “I’m free again. S’all irrelevant now. Come on, tell me about that mighty fine dame you keep makin’ eyes at. New bod, new you, huh?”_

_“It’s not like that!”_

_“You gonna interrogate me, I’m gonna interrogate you,” said Bucky with a wink. “It’s only fair.”_

_Repressing a sigh, Steve let Bucky change the subject. “Peggy is…a friend.”_

_“Friend?” Bucky raised an eyebrow at him and gave him a friendly smack in the arm. Pain exploded outward from the contact and Steve’s eyes went wide in shock, staring between his friend and his arm. “Steve, I knew you were clueless; I didn’t know you were_ dead _. She looks at you like she wants to eat you alive.” Grinning, Bucky pretended to snap viciously at the air before his face. The bite of teeth tore at Steve’s neck and he tried to shake the sensation away. If Bucky noticed anything amiss, he said nothing. “Come to think, she looks at you the same way you look at me.”_

_“Bu—”_

_“Now_ that _sounds like a good time. A woman like that’s gotta have a set of iron balls, and I bet she knows just how to use ‘um to drive a guy mad.”_

_Metal ripped at Steve’s skin._

_“Buck!”_

_He tried to lift an arm to slap at the pain, slap what was hurting him away, but his arm wouldn’t move._

_“Don’t act so scandalized,” Bucky continued with faux-casualness belied by the assessing glimmer in his eye. “We both know what a punk you used to be. Heck, this new bod of yours?” Bucky tapped Steve’s pecs, every touch like a stab to his chest. Steve tried to tell Bucky he was hurt, that something was wrong, something was_ incredibly _wrong, but his throat corded around the words and he choked, dropping to his knees. “Always was curious how a role reversal would feel. Maybe it’s my turn to ride you into the mattress, huh?”_

“Bu—”

_“You in me and me in her…that sounds like one hell of sandwich…”_

“Stop, stop!”

_“No disrespect to your friend, though, I’m sure she’s, ya know, classy. Proper.”_

“He’s awake!”

_“And I bet she could teach both of us a lesson we’d never forget.”_

“We can’t stop now. Sedative!”

_“Nails that long leave mighty fine claw marks – like a kitten.”_

A needle stabbed Steve’s chest and he gasped…

_“Rawr!”_

…he _tried_ to gasp…

 _“Aw, little Stevie, am I making you uncomfortable? I guarantee it’s not half as uncomfortable as I’d_ like _to make you.”_

Air didn’t flow through his lungs right. He felt like he was choking, like he was drowning. They’d done that to him one of his sessions, a lifetime ago – dunked him in the water for thirty seconds, sixty seconds, two minutes, five minutes, until every cell throbbed agony with the need for oxygen, until he passed out, until he woke up again, two soldiers holding him down while a third took notes on a clipboard, chewing her pen thoughtfully between her lips. Even remembering how terrible that felt was better than thinking about how he felt right now because he couldn’t breathe, he couldn’t, as surely as if the air around him had changed to water.

Awareness flickered in and out. Steve lost seconds, minutes, only to come back to himself desperately straining for air. His neck was a mass of pain, blood sticky against his back. If he focused on where the injuries were – _God, I don’t want to focus, why am I focusing?_ – he could swear he felt clamps, sutures, spreaders, surgical equipment tearing him apart and holding him open as he was cut and stitched back together. The moments of lucidity were surreal in their hyper-reality. Steve could feel the metal cold beneath him, the blood coating his mouth

He felt _everything_.

Until, mercifully, he blacked out again for an unknowable amount of time and woke again, to find them still torturing him, and again, to find them still torturing him, and again, and again. Panic built, tensed his muscles, his chest, but each time it rose to a fever pitch they stabbed him with a needle, in his arms, his chest, his belly, his thighs, over and over, and he was lost again.

_Flicker._

They forced a tube down his nose.

_Flicker._

They stitched something on his neck, into his neck, through his neck.

_Flicker._

They forced a tube _into his neck_.

_Flicker._

_Have to breathe. Have to breathe. Have to breathe. Have to breathe._

_Flicker._

“Damn you, _give him more sedative_.”

_Flicker._

Steve choked, his limbs numb from oxygen deprivation.

_Flicker._

_It’s not torture. I don’t know what they’re doing but there’s method here, there’s a plan here. There’s been a plan here all along. If only I could—_

_Flicker._

Clean air flooded his lungs, exploded through his senses, and if he could have he’d’ve sobbed in relief.

 _Flicker_.

Another tube was up his nose, something thick stuffed down his throat, and as quickly as he’d found blessed air, it was gone. Cold liquid flowed through the tube, flowed directly into Steve’s lungs, and he couldn’t keep the tears from his eyes. Heck, he welcomed them. If the Hydra scientists saw him crying, saw him reacting, maybe they’d dose him with sedative _again_ and he wouldn’t have to continue to experience the agony of drowning as his throat strained to pull air around whatever gagged him.

_I just want this, all of this, to be over. Is that too much to ask?_

“3 liters, check.”

“Confirmed, 3 liters.”

“No change.”

_It’s far too much to ask. The people of Europe have suffered this torture and worse time and time again since the Fuhrer was elected in 1932. Even before that, in the devastation of World War 1, the devastation that killed my father and millions more, people the world over have endured unspeakable torment. This is so much bigger than me, and so many have suffered so much worse._

“3.5 liters, check.”

“Confirmed, 3.5 liters.”

“No change.”

_Selfish, Steve. Always so selfish. I’ve been granted a gift – a power – like no one else in the world. It doesn’t belong to me. It belongs to the United States. My powers belong to every innocent man, woman, and child around the world who has suffered. I am not my own person anymore. I belong to the world._

“4 liters, check.”

“Confirmed, 4 liters.”

“No change.”

 _Why is it selfish to want to breathe? Why is it selfish to want to not be in pain? Why is it selfish to want to be free of this torment? I don’t wish it on anyone in my place. I wish it on_ no one _, not even my worst enemies, not even those doing this to me. They need to die so that others may be safe but let it be clean, let it be quick, and let all this violence, all this madness, be over._

“4.5 liters, check.”

“Confirmed, 4.5 liters.”

“No change.”

What little air Steve got came in tiny inhalations, hopelessly inadequate to meet the oxygen demands of his body. He could _feel_ his cells imploding, dying, feel his skin flooding with liquid and blood. A tracery of red lines glowed over his blackened, blocked vision.

“5 liters, check.”

“Confirmed, 5 liters.”

“No change.”

Crimson flooded Steve’s vision as water flooded his lungs. His throat spasmed and constricted as he struggled to inhale, but he couldn’t. He tried clenching his throat, tried straining through his nose, but no air could get past the blockage. The frigid water filling his lungs sapped what little strength he had left. He was freezing, freezing _again_ , this time from the inside out.

_Is that the point? Are they trying to replicate what happened to me in the arctic ice? No. There’s no point. There’s no point to any of this. They’re madmen and this is all mad, all mad forever._

“5.5 liters, check.”

“Confirmed, 5.5 liters.”

“No change.”

_Air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…_

_Air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…_

_Air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…air…_

“6 liters, check.”

“Confirmed, 6 liters.”

“No change.”

Staggering pain tore through Steve’s neck.

“Wait…”

Something – blood or water or pus or, or, or – gargled in his throat, below the obstruction. There was cold liquid in his esophagus, trailing up his body, frigid against his skin, leaking out of his neck.

“6.5 liters, check.”

“Confirmed, 6.5 liters.”

“Report!”

“There’s water leaking from the incision sites.”

Relief came before understanding. There was still water clogging his lungs, still gags obstructing his nose and his mouth, but there was _air_ , blissful, fantastic air revitalizing him. Automatic, instinctual sequences tried to take over – inhale, expand chest – and Steve choked again.

“Oaf. Confirm 7 liters.”

“7 liters confirmed.”

Despite panic sounding alarms through every synapse, every pore, Steve clung to the memory of those couple of breaths. He had no idea what he’d done, no idea what had changed, and he struggled and fought and came closer and closer to blacking out.

“Sedate him again.”

Steve gagged on a terrified sob as the needle punctured his abdomen. A wave of ice, distinct from the chill of the water but equally terrifying, threaded through him, made his muscles flaccid, his thoughts too sluggish to process.

Air diffused through his body.

Tears of relief pooled in the corners of his eyes. He _couldn’t_ breathe normally, his body rendered useless by the drugs they poured into him, and in that uselessness was salvation.

Steve stopped trying to fight.

Flaps of skin on the sides of his neck flared, dripped blood and water, and somehow, Steve breathed.

There wasn’t enough of him left to wonder how or why or what had happened to him or what this meant. There was scarce enough of him left to consider that he _should_ ask those questions. Whether this be miracle or damnation, Steve couldn’t bring himself to fight or question it. He was _breathing_ , despite the water heavy in his lungs. He _breathed_ , despite the obstruction of his nose and mouth.

Anything that helped Steve survive his torture was a change worth embracing.

Breathing had never felt so glorious.

“The first procedure is a success. Schedule the second operation for Thursday at 0800. Dismissed.”

The horribly familiar ring of boots on concrete spoke to his torturers leaving.

The tube was still down Steve’s nose.

The gag was still down his throat.

The unbreakable bindings yet held him ankles, wrists, waist, chest and forehead to the gurney.

Water yet pumped into him.

He was so cold.

_Gills. I’m breathing water because they carved gills into my neck._

But he was alive. He was breathing. He’d survive this.

_But they won’t. I don’t know how, I don’t know when, but I will see every prisoner here free and I will see every one of our captors dead._

_Maybe it would be alright to torture them first. Just a little._

_No, Steve._

_Fine, Rogers, you win this round._

* * *

“¿Nueve?” asked Carlos, pointing at the unconscious, bloody prisoner being dragged down the aisle toward a cell elsewhere in the vast concrete warehouse where they were incarcerated.

_There are enough cells that they don’t need to put anyone side by side. Why am I next to Carlos?_

“No, I counted him earlier, we’re still at 8 – um, ocho,” Rogers replied, holding up eight fingers. Carlos hummed understanding and slumped back against the bars of his cage. There were no cots, no blankets, no comforts in their barren cells, and the bars on top were built so low that Rogers couldn’t stand up straight, though the room was cavernous, the light-lined ceiling high above.

_Theory 1: Carlos is a plant meant to gain my trust and obtain information from me._

_Objection to Theory 1: Carlos doesn’t appear to speak English. This could be a clever ploy to get me to spill my guts, but Hydra is ace at psychological manipulation, and they must realize a better way to dupe me would be place me beside someone who speaks just enough English that I’d be taken in. There’s no point in my opening up to Carlos, since he can’t understand me. Then again, they also likely know how intelligent I am, so perhaps they considered that I would think of that and so took steps to counter my probable suspicions._

_Ploys within ploys._

Idly, Rogers lifted his hand to his neck instead of dropping it back to his side. The wound left by the procedure he’d been subjected to yet continually throbbed and twinged. Carlos had told him he’d been unconscious for nearly a day, based on a count of the scant meals they were provided, and by Rogers’ fairly accurate internal clock another dozen hours had passed since then. He should have healed already.

Not that Rogers had any baseline reference for how long it _usually_ took for him to heal from having his respiratory rewired to allow him to breathe underwater.

 _Why_ had they given him gills?

_Don’t think about it. I have no evidence, only wild conjecture. Dwelling on theories when I have no facts to back it up is obsessive and will only drive me crazy._

At least he could still breathe air as well. Despite the agony of the procedure itself, Rogers didn’t seem the worse off for what had been done to him. Heck, he’d gained a new advantage. There had definitely been times in his life when gills would have been damn useful – starting with when he pursued Dr. Erksine’s assassin in that damn sub. Going all neurotic wondering why fanatics had modified him in a way that actually _helped_ him was an exercise in futility.

He had to focus on the problems he _could_ wrestle with.

_Theory 2: Prisoners in complete isolation struggle more than those allowed companionship. Evidence suggests that even when experimenting on prisoners of war, Hydra saw no need to isolate them. Though we are not all grouped together, all the prisoners I’ve seen here are placed side by side with at least one other prisoner. By allowing us a friend of sorts, we are kept functional for longer. Further, if we grow attached to a fellow prisoner, that provides them leverage: a person that they can threaten to obtain what they want._

_What do they want?_

_Objection to Theory 2: None yet. If only I could think more clearly. Well, there is that I can’t imagine Hydra giving a damn how we_ feel _, considering how intent on torturing us they are._

_Not torture._

_Experimentation._

_There’s an important distinction there, one that Mengele would insist on._

Rogers shuddered.

What had, in his first clumsy exploration, felt like a single slit to each side of his neck proved when better healed to be three closely cut slits, the skin flaps carved so thin and so fine that they made feathery layers one atop the other. They flared each time Rogers inhaled, vibrated and puffed out with each exhale, even though he wasn’t underwater. From what Rogers understood of his accelerated healing, he thought he _should_ have healed what they did, that the gills should have resealed and healed over. Instead, his healing abilities seemed to be… _firming_ the gills, making them more real, more functional than they’d been when Hydra first sliced them.

_Theory 3: Carlos, this complex, these supposed gills, and even the torture are a dehydration-induced hallucination._

_First Objection to Theory 3: Carlos speaks Spanish. I do not speak Spanish. I cannot hallucinate a language I do not know._

_Corollary to Theory 3: Any possible objection to Theory 3 may also be a hallucination. I can’t in fact_ ever actually know _if the entire rest of my life is a dehydration-induced hallucination._

_Helpful as always, Steve._

“Oi – ¡nueve y diez!” Carlos’ voice – _well, he doesn’t_ sound _like a hallucination – really, Rogers, that’s the best objection you’ve got?_ – cut through Rogers’ introspection.

_Given how much time I spend arguing with myself, odds are not in my favor on the “am I completely cracking up?” question._

Gaze following where Carlos pointed, Rogers’ eyes narrowed. Whatever Hydra was doing to him, they’d modified his vision as well. When he’d first arrived, the light in the room had been bright, and Rogers’ eagle-eyed sight had been able to see through cage after cage to the gray walls surrounding them. Now, the light was murky, the room strangely fogged.

_Maybe they’re trying to undo the effects of the super soldier serum?_

Given what a poor job the scientists working on him consistently did of sedating him, Rogers didn’t think they were succeeding, if that was their goal. Everything they did to him, his body adapted to.

 _Or maybe_ that’s _the goal? Test the power of the serum, see what this body can take?_

_But why? The serum hasn’t been used on anyone else. Understanding its vulnerabilities allows them to exploit the weakness of exactly one person. Me. And they’ve already got me._

_Unless, in however long I’ve been gone, more super soldiers have been made. Captain Phillips always said he’d been promised an army of men like me. Maybe, with me gone, he got his wish?_

The worst part of being held captive wasn’t the deprivation, nor was it the isolation, nor was it the agony of being tortured and tested, nor was it the involuntary, unasked for modifications to his body.

No, the worst part of being held captive was that Rogers had no idea how much time had passed, no idea what was happening in the world outside, no idea of the fate of his friends, no idea where they were or why they in particular were being held or what Hydra’s endgame was.

Lack of information, and no time to do anything but think, would drive Rogers mad.

“Eleven…uh…¿diez y uno?” Rogers suggested, squinting through the murk he knew was only in his head and pointing in the same direction as Carlos.

“No, no – once,” Carlos explained, holding up his fingers as he counted off. “Once, doce, trece, catorce, quince, diez y seis, diez y siete, diez y ocho, diez y nueve, veinte, veinte y uno…”

“Right, right, thank you – gracias.”

“De nada – you are welcome.” Carlos’ accent when he spoke English was atrocious. Probably _still_ better than Rogers’ accent when he spoke Spanish.

At least he’d come out of this experience with a basic working knowledge of Spanish.

And the ability to breathe underwater.

Small blessings. Rogers had gotten through a lot of tough times by enumerating every small blessing that came his way.

By that count, he was a profoundly lucky man.

If only he could concentrate on formulating escape plans instead of debating if the only friend he had left in the world was actually an enemy plant or a product of his imagination.

“Carlos, can we do body parts again?” Rogers asked. Carlos stared at him blankly. “Arm?” Rogers clarified, pointing at his arm.

“El brazo,” said Carlos. He pointed to his neck. “El cuello.”

“Neck,” Rogers replied. Swallowing hard to quell nerves caused his gills to flutter. It felt strangely relaxing. He pointed at his gills. “Gills.”

“¿Creo…las branquias? ¿Como un pez?”

_Pez are Dernier’s favorite candy. He promised to get us all some after the war. I never did get to try one._

“¿Pez?” Rogers asked.

Waving him close, Carlos traced an outline on the floor before him, a big circle with the base of a triangle attached to one end.

“Oh. Yes! ¡Sí! Gills, like on a fish. Las branquias de pez.”

“No, no. Las branquias de pescado, o las branquias de un pez.”

Rogers shook his head. He didn’t understand. Grammar was much harder to pick up without a language in common than nouns were. Still, bit by bit, he was learning.

_Why gills, though? Why give me new abilities?_

_Eh, see, they’re gonna send me to swim with the fishes, see?_

Rogers laughed. Carlos stared at him, blinked, laughed along uncertainly, and Rogers laughed harder, the sound echoing from the rafters. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d laughed.

God, it felt good.

Around the room, other shaky laughs rose with his until the chamber resounded with the laughter.

No announcement came to quiet them.

Hydra didn’t mind if the prisoners snatched a few useless minutes of happiness. Hydra still held all the cards.

_Theory 2 confirmed. We’re housed close together for minimal psychological support._

_I’m so glad for minimal psychological support._

_I’m so glad to have a friend._

* * *

Steve’s consciousness floated, strangely disconnected, about four feet from his head. Idly, he tried to figure out where his consciousness _usually_ floated. Grounded, he supposed, locked into place by the supposedly intangible barrier of his skull.

_Do I have a skull anymore? Maybe Hydra stole my skull. Replace the one they lost when Schmidt died._

_Mine’s not red._

_They’ll have to change the whole logo._

Steve would have chuckled if he had a mouth.

Disembodied awarenesses didn’t have mouths.

_Well, that’s not true, I still have a mouth, probably. It’s attached to my body where it’s supposed to be, while I’m wherever I am, not where I’m supposed to be._

_Hey, no, I’m Steve, my body should follow_ me _, not the other way ‘round! Get over here you useless hunk of meat!_

 _And I have_ gills _!_

Every time Steve remembered the modifications to his neck, it struck him as funnier than the previous time. He supposed he should be distressed, but he’d already readily accepted his entire body being restructured, essentially by magic – _no, by_ science _!!_ – in the space of a few minutes. After that, what was a bit more body modification between friends?

_Or between sworn eternal enemies._

_I’m gonna destroy Hydra. I’m going to_ annihilate _them. It’s gonna be_ great _._

A strange tugging interrupted Steve’s meandering train of thought. He tried to look down, but there was no body to move – _right, how did I forget that?_ – and nothing but a vague sense of existence in the black ocean of the universe. If he were truly disembodied, like a ghost, he should be able to look down and see himself. _Out of body experience_ , _isn’t that what they call it?_ He’d heard that the Chinese had some girl who could do astral projection, but that sounded different again. Steve already had _plenty_ of super powers, he neither needed nor wanted more.

_Yet Hydra is giving me more. Why make me able to breathe underwater? It makes no sense._

_Right, right, I’m expecting “sense” from people whose basic world view is “Hitler isn’t extreme enough” and “occult magic is the way to make our mission successful” and “our mission is to ethnically cleanse and take over the world.” They’re a thousand pounds of crazy in a thousand individual one pound heads._

_Wait, what?_

_That’s always been the weird thing about their logo, right? The Hydra is a creature with many heads, and that asshole I met in Brooklyn when I first changed did the whole “cut off one head, two more shall take its place.”_

_Does that make me Hercules?_

_No, no, focus, that’s not the point at all._

_The_ point _, Steve,_ Rogers _, you asshole, is that the Hydra is a mythical monster with many heads but their logo is one skull with many tentacles coming out of it. That’s a…a squid, or an octopus, or if we’re sticking to mythology, a Kraken or something, not a Hydra. And it’s not like they’re stylized heads or something in that logo, they’ve even got little sucker things. They’re_ definitely _tentacles. What was their designer thinking?_

The sense that something was pulling against him intensified. Without any sense that he had a body, he could swear that, if he _did_ have a body, it was rocking back and forth. There was no pain, which was a relief – _really? Shouldn’t I be worried, all things considered?_ – but there was a sense of pressure, of his body being manipulated, and a niggling sense that he was, perhaps, a little more out of it than any normal circumstances could justify.

_They probably drugged the ever-loving hell out of me._

_Hey, if they’re going to torture me, at least they_ finally _got the sedative levels right._

_Unless I’m supposed to be actually unconscious right now._

There was a faint twinge of pain up his spine – _hey, my spine, also part of my nervous system, just like my brain, that’s probably why I felt that! Cool!_ – and then a glorious sense of weightlessness.

If Steve could have sighed contentedly, he’d have done so.

Faint blotches of color, like drops of paint splashing and diffusing in water, played across Steve’s vision.

 _Oh, I’m definitely_ Steve _right now, Rogers would be waxing poetic on blood hitting snow or something. It’s not_ always _about the mission. I had a life, a_ good _life, before the war. I had a job. I had friends. I had Bucky, in almost the way I wanted Bucky. I had the bruises to prove I was a good man who wouldn’t back down from a hopeless cause provided it was the_ right _cause._

 _What was right and what was wrong was so easy, so_ obvious _, back home._

_Now, Steve, that’s the kind of bull that makes me ignore you. There’s nothing subtle about who is in the right and who is in the wrong in this war._

_Perhaps – no, of course you’re right – but there will be a life after this war. With or without Bucky, with or without Peggy, I’m going to have to go home to_ somewhere _and figure out what that life looks like._

_Don’t be ridiculous. There will always be men like Hitler. There will always be men like Schmidt. There will always be evil in the world, sometimes masked, sometimes not, and it will always be my responsibility to face it._

_That’s not fair. The war isn’t eternal. There has to be a point when I will be allowed to stop fighting._

_Why? I never stopped fighting in Brooklyn. And now…I’ve been chosen. Being selected to have the serum used on me was a privilege, one that I_ have _to live up to._

_Even if all I want to do is paint?_

_Steve, you gave up the right to do what you_ want _the day you enlisted in the army. The US Army owns me, owns the science that created me, owns_ us _, and there will always be another battle._

_But—_

The prick of a needle interrupted to Steve’s internal argument, gave him something to focus on other than his conflicting desires and responsibilities. There was no actual dispute. When the moment came, Steve knew what he would do.

He wouldn’t be painting.

The pricking repeated, repeated, as if someone had found the hole in Steve’s mind, the split where the person he had been and the person that he’d become had diverged, and they were intent on sewing him back together.

_That’d be great, right? We’re the most awkward married couple in the planet._

_Whether I’m sewn together or not, I’m still stuck trying to reconcile the contradictions. Pretending I’m two different people sometimes might help preserve my sanity but it doesn’t solve the problems. There has to be a balance._

_There will be a balance when I’m dead._

_That’s the most macabre crap you’ve ever spewed, Rogers. And it’s nonsense. Utter, total, complete nonsense._

_Come on, Steve, say bullshit. You know you want to._

_Language, Rogers!_

The sensation of having thread pulled through his flesh over and over was bizarre, the moreso because Steve couldn’t have said what Hydra was doing or where they were sewing. He was half-convinced it was in his imagination, more hallucinations, because it should _hurt_. The cutting of the gills had hurt like mad.

_Maybe this is a smaller change. They’re sewing fins onto my arms or something._

_Man I never was a very good swimmer…but now I’ll have an excuse to practice._

_Just call me Aquaman._

_But can’t he talk to fish? Maybe I’ll be able to talk to fish!_

_Blub blub, I’m a fish!_

“Herr Reinhardt, er _lacht_.”

“Fortsetzen!” The voice was familiar – the one who had called out codes and numbers, he thought – and, hey, now he had a name!

_Wait, why couldn’t I hear them before? Have they been silent? Can I hear other things?_

_Wait, why can’t I understand them? I_ can _understand them! I speak German! They said…_

_…they said I’m laughing._

Steve laughed harder.

The disconnected, disembodied feeling of being stabbed by a needle went on and on.

_As long as I can laugh, I can weather whatever they do to me._

_I will be alright._

_I will escape._

_I will survive._

_The battle will continue._

_And I will fight until I win it._

_But what are they doing to me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts June 5th, 2017.


	3. Chapter 3

“¡Esteban! ¡Estas vivo!”

“Huh?” Rogers asked groggily. Dull pain beat at him, clashed with the lingering malaise caused by whatever Hydra dosed him with. Flickers of memory reminded him of some of the absurdities that had crossed his mind during his last session with the Hydra scientists.

_Herr Reinhardt._

_I’ve heard that name before_.

 _I need information. More information_.

“¡Pensé que habías muerto!” Carlos sounded incredibly happy. It seemed rude that Rogers couldn’t even open his eyes, much less move, to greet him and reassure him that his concerns were unfounded. That Carlos had been concerned was evident, even if his meaning was beyond Rogers’ meager Spanish. His limbs felt liquid, fluid, in a way no structure with a bone should. Attempts to move his arms and legs accomplished nothing. He couldn’t even wiggle a toe or flex a finger.

_Starting with the most important question: what has Hydra done to me?_

“He orado por ti,” Carlos continued. Rogers attempted to shake his head – to communicate that he couldn’t move, to communicate that he didn’t understand, to communicate _anything_ , but all he managed was to flop onto the front of his face and crush his nose.

God, but he _hurt_. The faint awareness of discomfort intensified the more he awoke, thrumming pain that had seem generalized but became more and more specific to his waist and legs. He felt heavier than he remembered being – though he could swear there’d been a moment in the midst of his stupor when he’d felt light, almost unbearably so.

Carlos was talking again, a garble of Spanish that Rogers only made out occasional words of – _Hydra_ and _Esteban_ stood out prominently more than once. Rogers focused on movement. He was breathing, the gentle flap of his gills a continual counterpoint to the rise and fall of his chest. There was saliva in his mouth, the familiar beat of his heart, the tingle in his fingers that spoke to one hand falling asleep where it was trapped beneath his body. His skin felt tight, and dry, like he’d spent too much time outdoors with scant protection, like he’d felt the winter when his closet of an apartment had no heat and his landlord had promised to evict him if he complained to the authorities.

_New most important question: why can’t I move?_

_What, really? That’s more important than “why does it hurt so damn much,” “why did I feel so light,” “what was Hydra_ sewing _to me,” “what’s wrong with my skin,” “why did they give me gills,” “what does ‘pulpo’ mean and why does Carlos keep repeating it,” and “where the hell are we?”_

_Steve, Steve, remember what I keep saying? If you’re not going to be helpful, keep your damn trap shut tight._

Moving was a slow process of focus on each muscle he needed, testing it, flexing it, and finally attempting to engage it. The more of an inventory he took, the more he was able to narrow down the issue.

His legs were utterly unresponsive.

He wasn’t 100% certain his legs were _there_.

 _That’s insane. If they’d cut off my legs…_ why _would they cut off my legs? To see if they’d heal? Maybe that’s why I’m in so much pain – my legs are regrowing? Maybe that’s what Carlos is going on about? But I thought…leg was ‘la pierna,’ or ‘las piernas’…and did he just say ‘tentáculos?’ What does_ that _mean? It sounds like…_

“Steve,” he muttered, “ _not helping_.”

“¡Hablas!”

The Spanish chatter resumed.

After a damn _eon_ of carefully testing his body, Rogers got a hand planted firmly on the ground and rolled himself onto his back.

Carlos went silent.

The _smack-thwap_ of Rogers’ bare flesh against the ground was loud. Too loud. There was an inexplicable _splat_ and _splash_ when the lower part of his body moved.

_Did I urinate while I was unconscious? That’s not what it smells like, though, or feels like. Maybe it’s sweat? But I don’t feel hot. I feel…comfortable. Which is weird, now that I think on it, it’s been chilly in here previously._

_It could be blood._

_A lot of blood._

The effort of moving had winded him – _hey Rogers, remember when we had severe asthma and this is how we felt_ all the damn time _? Cause I do_ – and he lay back against the chill ground, panting. The muscles of his arm, already spent, twitched, and pins and needles burned through his other hand.

Finally, he forced his eyes open.

Overhead light glared and refracted through his vision, and he blinked several times before he grew used to how bright it was. He shifted his head minutely so the bars of his cage would block the worst of it.

Something rubbery brushed his hand.

_Am I not in the cage alone anymore?_

_Los tentáculos…a tentacle monster of some kind? But that would be able to reach through the bars. Carlos would be in danger, if it were something dangerous, and he’d sound more alarmed. All he sounds is relieved, and confused._

The weird _something_ brushed Rogers’ hand again and he snagged it with a finger. The flesh was cool to the touch, inhuman. It writhed weakly against Rogers’ hold, thin tip curling around him, a suction cup adhering to his nail.

Rogers could feel the thing – the tentacle? – touching his hand.

Rogers could _also_ feel his hand touching the tentacle.

With a grunt of effort, he lifted his head enough to see down his body.

 _Well, at least now I know why I hurt so much_.

No legs.

Where his hips used to be, where his genitalia used to be, where his legs used to be, there was instead an unrecognizable mass of black tentacles. They twitched and writhed, beyond his control, but undoubtedly, absolutely, _definitely_ a part of his body. The tentacle in his hand strained against his fingers, and he felt it pulling on him, felt his pathetic grip trying to restrain…himself.

His navel, where pale skin made a neatly stitched border with rubbery-looking black, was a mass of agony.

Rogers slumped back against the floor.

“Fuck,” he groaned.

“Ah,” said Carlos wisely. “Sí. Fuck. Shit.”

_Their logo is a kraken._

_I’m a kraken._

“Shit.”

* * *

_I should be a bawling, panicked wreck over this._

_But I’m not._

_I’m_ actually _not._

Rogers preferred not to think about the past few hours – few days? The guards had brought them two meals since Rogers had woken up. Usually impassive to the point of inhumanity, now they gawked openly at Rogers’ new body, awed, even _respectful_. They gave him a larger portion of food, which Rogers split with Carlos as soon as they left, and one reached out as if he wanted to touch the tentacles, only to have the other slap his hand away with a snarled invective that Rogers didn’t understand. It took him an embarrassingly long time, far after they’d left, to process that the reason he’d not understood was that he’d been expecting them to speak German.

They’d spoken Russian.

The guards had never talked in front of him before.

All the scientists and doctors spoke German.

 _It means something – I’m sure it means something – but_ what _?_

Idly, Rogers closed his eyes and let his thoughts turn over the few scattered bits of information that he had while he focused on his new appendages. The pain had waxed and waned over the hours, blindingly, incapacitatingly agonizing at times, scarce noticeable at others. Rogers hadn’t been able to repress whimpers and moans, though he’d mostly locked his lips around the screams that echoed off the rafters. Something something small victories. Rogers wasn’t sure if the discomfort had ebbed or if he’d grown used to it, but he felt capable of more than writhing on the floor, which was a marked improvement. The tentacles _did_ move if he thought about it, though he had minimal control so far. There were just so _many_ of the damn things – 20, by Rogers’ count – and his brain lacked the…the…the synapses? The control? The experience? The nuance?...to sort through the sensations he was feeling and how he could respond to them.

 _How do octopi_ do _it?_

 _Well, they_ do _only have 8…I have more than double that…_

 _God_ damn _my life is weird._

A dull headache suggested that Rogers’ brain _might_ have the nuance shortly. While he didn’t have any medical tests as evidence, he suspected that the pain he’d experienced since he awoke from his surgery had been his body repairing itself. While his memories of the surgery were hazy and distorted by how drugged he’d been, he didn’t remember the scientists using much finesse. As far as he could tell by dredging through the sensations he’d experienced, they’d cut off his legs at the hip and sewn on the tentacles – _but_ where _did they_ get _a wriggling mass of human-sized tentacles? Did they grow them for me? How damn long_ have _I been here?_ – without bothering to reconnect his blood vessels, urinary tract, or any of the other critical life systems that ran through his lower abdomen and down into his legs. They’d been far more careful when they’d slit his gills.

_Likely, they observed how I healed from that and realized that consideration and care was unnecessary._

_At least now I know how powerful my healing truly is. I’m not dead. Any normal human – anyone mortal? – would have been. That also invalidates all my theories from when I was in the ice. How much water or food I have access to is likely not a viable indicator of my survival. I might have been there for weeks, months even._

_Years?_

_God I hope it hasn’t been years._

_Unlikely. Consider the technology I’ve seen since I’ve woken, consider the tattered uniform Carlos wears – definitely standard Spanish naval issue – wouldn’t make sense if too much time had passed. Ditto the uniforms worn by the Hydra agents. Identical to what I remember. Uniforms change every few years if only to give government textile plants something to do, so in all likelihood it hasn’t been longer than...six months? Maybe a year at the outside?_

_What do my allies think happen to me?_

_Friends, Rogers. Call them friends._

_When do my_ friends _think happen to me? Captain Phillips? Dugan, Morita, Sawyer, Falsworth, and all the Commandos? Stark?_

_Peggy?_

_Unnecessary distractions, Steve._

_Man, Peggy would have her nails in my balls in a trice if she heard me call her an ‘unnecessary distraction.’_

_I don’t have balls any more._

“Fuck,” Rogers muttered.

Could he urinate? Could he orgasm? Could he defecate? How would his body _work_ now? No wonder he had a headache, and mild indigestion, and was light-headed, and was cold. His blood flow had been rewired. However much his legs weighed before, twenty tentacles surely weighed more. His entire metabolism was reconfiguring on the fly.

_Again._

No matter how he circled around, Rogers always returned to the same fundamental point: no matter how bizarre the changes to his body were, he’d weathered one complete body transformation and he’d weather a second.

If only his skin would stop _hurting_.

_What if..._

Using his upper body strength to pull himself over the rough floor, chest and stomach abrading as he scraped over the concrete, Rogers went to where he’d left his tray from their most recent meal. Carlos had eaten then gone to sleep, curled up on the floor on the side of his cage closest to Rogers. Carlos had deliberately chosen the spot, staring Rogers in the eye the whole time, a show of faith and support that Rogers appreciated more than he cared to admit to himself. Rogers didn’t see himself as a monster, and Carlos didn’t treat him like a monster.

Considering how some American soldiers who were supposedly his allies had reacted to Rogers’ first change, even with Captain Phillips there to back him up and Rogers every action an obvious sign of patriotism…well, some had thought him a monster _then_. And now? Carlos was a damn _saint_.

_I will get him out of here. I will._

There was a half-cup of water remaining with Rogers’ food. Acting on a hunch – _damn I hope I’m right, if I waste this I’m going to be parched in a few hours_ – Rogers poured the water on one of his aching tentacles. Black flesh that had seemed grayed and taut went instantly lax, the skin gaining a glossy sheen, and the three he’d splashed slid against each other effortlessly without a trace of friction. The tautness in the dampened places eased, contrasting unpleasantly with how much the dry parts of his tentacles hurt by comparison.

_My tentacles._

_Wow._

Was there a way Rogers could ask for more water? _Hey, Hydra assholes, you know how you cut my legs off and made me into a kraken and gave me gills so I could breathe underwater and then for some reason_ didn’t put me in water _? Can we maybe remedy that?_ Before giving Rogers the serum, Dr. Erskine tested it, perfected it, ran experiments, was _prepared_. From what Rogers could piece together of Hydra’s operations, they hadn’t a clue what they were doing and scarce cared. The entirety of their plan seemed to rely on Rogers’ serum-granted healing powers.

_Being in water’d feel nice…_

_If they pull me out of here and put me in a tank, I’ll be separated from Carlos, isolated and alone._

_Unless they’ve got other successful experiments to keep in my aquarium._

_How many prisoners did Hydra cut apart and try to graft to tentacles before they attempted this on me? How many died in agony? How many_ didn’t _die in agony, but yet live in constant pain?_

_It’s almost too awful to contemplate._

_No. It is too awful to contemplate. There’s no virtue to be found in projected imaginings of the suffering of others while I sit here doing nothing._

_Okay, this new body has gotta be good for something…let’s work on manual dexterity…_

_Tentacular dexterity?_

The latticed bars of Rogers’ cage made a perfect jungle gym for practicing with his myriad limbs. Concentrating on one tentacle - or trying to; six moved when Rogers attempted to focus – Rogers strained toward the bars near him. Two of the tentacles flopped down and wriggled against the floor. One twisted around itself and made a surprisingly neat knot. One strained ineffectively against the weight of two others atop it. But two – two of the six reached the bars, tips automatically curling around the chill metal.

“Good, good,” Rogers murmured.

His sense of touch through the tips of his tentacles was limited, but existent. Rogers felt as though thick layers of cloth separated him from the metal, but he could feel the cold, feel the solidity, and – _focus, observe, learn, improve_ – he noticed a tang in his mouth, almost as if he could _taste_ the bars. He tried to pull the limbs back; one came but the other suctioned into place and the taste intensified.

_That’s so weird._

_No. Not weird. Welcome to your new normal, Captain Rogers._

After taking the serum, control of Rogers’ altered body had been instant. In the space of minutes he’d gone from experiencing excruciating agony to being able to sprint after Dr. Erskine’s assassin. The pain had faded in moments and he’d been capable of feats of strength and endurance such as he’d always dreamed of.

After having his torso surgically grafted to a vat-grown octopoid…

… _they must have used a vat, right? Or something similar? There’s no real creature that has this many tentacles, and if they’d cut the limbs off an animal wouldn’t my immune system have rejected it? Or something? They must have somehow engineered the limbs so that my body would accept the graft…really, Steve,_ that’s _your main concern right now? Who cares where the tentacles came from? They’re part of me now, and I have to adapt._

After having his torso _surgically grafted to an octopoid_ , wherever said octopoid was made or taken from, Rogers had taken at least 24 hours to heal and now was depressingly proud of his ability to wrap a single tentacle tip around a steel bar.

_But hey, it’s a start._

_I wonder if my legs would regrow if the tentacles were cut off?_

Rogers was surprisingly reticent to find out. As new as the addition was, and as wary as he was of Hydra’s intentions, his new body felt like _him_ , just as his first transformation had.

He wouldn’t be a Hydra tool or a Hydra symbol, though. That seemed their most likely purpose for changing Rogers into the image of a kraken. Rogers _would not_ be used.

He had to escape.

But first, he had to be able to control himself.

Closing his eyes, Rogers narrowed his attention to a single tentacle, reached out, tried to have it grab the next bar parallel to the first he’d grabbed. It slithered across the floor – not what he’d had in mind – and careened into one of the bars. Pain jolted him from head to…tentacle toe? God, he didn’t even have the _vocabulary_ for his new body.

_If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again…_

At least Rogers now had something to do during his hours of captivity other than obsess about what little he knew and wonder about everything he didn’t.

* * *

“You know, if my tentacles dry out, all the work you’ve done will be wasted,” Rogers pointed out. “There’s only one of me.” Anticipation had him gritting his teeth before the shivering, tingling pain of the electric shock suffused his body.

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers,” asked the familiar voice of Herr Reinhardt.

Picture 1 was a Kodachrome of a child smiling, a laugh almost audible on her still lips, her skin flushed, her eyes aglow with joy.

Picture 2 was a Kodachrome of the same child, face pale, eyes dead, freckled cheeks splattered red with blood.

Hydra had killed her or the Nazis had killed her to make their damn silly psychological test.

Anger seethed beneath Rogers’ skin every time he looked at the images.

“These electric shocks can’t be good for me,” he continued. “My insides are already pretty haywire, messing with my synapses and relays and receptors and whatnot will only make things worse.” A gesture toward his tentacles proved his point; after the dozen or more unpleasant shocks he’d already sustained, they writhed and twitched, useless. Rogers couldn’t _make_ them move, not anymore, despite the exercises he’d been doing for days to increase his strength and motor skills.

The next shock was more intense than the previous. _Every_ shock had been more intense than the previous. Rogers’ teeth buzzed and his eyes ached; his tentacles jerked and spasmed uselessly. One finger jittered uncontrollably.

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers,” repeated Herr Reinhardt. The thin-faced scientist sat opposite him, a wide metal table separating them. His hand rested on a folder that, at the beginning of this session, he’d taken the paired images from. Rogers had caught a glimpse of a stack more. The two photographs sat between them, facing Rogers, and though they were small in comparison to the table, they seemed enormous. No matter how hard he tried to focus on Herr Reinhardt, memorizing his facial features, his uniform, estimating his stature and weight, his gaze crept back to the girl and her awful fate.

“I know you won’t kill me.” Rogers made himself meet Herr Reinhardt’s eyes – behind his round glasses, they were blue, his hair short, dirty blond tending toward gray.

The next shock tensed Rogers’ shoulders, jolted his jaw, and fuzzed his vision. It seemed to go on far longer than the previous ones had, or maybe the problem was that even with the electricity gone, Rogers couldn’t stop quivering.

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.”

Shaking his head in denial sloshed Rogers’ brain in his head.

_You know they’re going to keep at this until you cave, right? That’s how psychological torture works. Remember when they cut into you until you were ready to tell them anything they wanted? They can do that again. Again and again and again._

A powerful shock forced a gasp from Rogers, left him breathing hard, slumped in his chair. His muscles seized and knotted then went liquid in their unresponsiveness. With no pelvis, no bones to support him below the waist, Rogers slid partway out of his chair, arms no longer strong enough to hold him in place. Only four tentacles threaded through the open gap between the chair back and the chair seat kept him from lolling to the floor beneath the table.

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.”

“No.” His voice sounded strange. “No?” He tried again, grinned, let the sound slur out. “Noooooooo.” Something was wrong with his lips.

_Something’s wrong with a whole lot more of you than that._

_Steve? Or is that Rogers?_

_Same person, remember? Same person…_

Rogers scarce reacted to the next shock, as intense as it was.

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.”

The question _should_ make sense. The voice was familiar – almost comforting though it settled disturbingly over Rogers’ mind – and the words clearly English despite the undecipherable accent – no. _A German accent. That’s Herr Reinhardt and he speaks German_. Despite that, the words were gobbledygook.

“Huh?”

Every limb went rigid – even the tentacles – as pain zapped through Steve again. In the midst of the agony, his thoughts screamed that he’d had enough, that he’d pick a damn picture – he’d pick picture 1, even knowing they would shock him again, even understanding that they were trying to condition him to pick the image of violence and pain – but though he could swear he screamed his concession, the shock didn’t end. When it finally did, his muscles went lax, liquid pooling in the slight curve of his chair.

_Well, I guess that confirms I can still urinate._

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.”

The realization was reassuring as Steve slumped to the floor. He felt like he was melting. The previous day, he hadn’t been able to urinate. Whatever he was becoming, the process wasn’t over. His body was still growing, still adapting, still modifying, still accommodating. And his mind hadn’t changed at all. Giving him kraken limbs didn’t make him a symbol of Hydra.

“I’m still Steve!”

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.”

The question came at the same moment as the next shock, not a pause between, not a moment to left to answer. Herr Reinhardt no longer expected Steve to reply – _what was the question again?_ – and Steve couldn’t have if he wanted to.

_I’m still me._

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.” Shock.

_They can’t make me like them, not by changing my body, not by showing me lurid photographs, not by hurting innocent people, not by hurting Bucky._

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.” Shock.

_I miss Bucky._

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.” Shock.

_I miss Peggy._

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.” Shock.

_And Steve Rogers._

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.” Shock.

_God I miss who I used to be._

_How do I get back to being that person?_

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.” Shock.

_It’s too late. It was too late the day Hydra captured me, the day I sent Schmidt’s plane hurtling into the snow, the day Bucky died, the day I was given the serum, the day Dr. Erskine found me, the day I tried to enlist for the first time, the day Hitler was voted into office._

“Select picture 1 or picture 2, Mr. Rogers.” Shock.

_It’s always been too late for me._

The thought was a strangely comforting lie and Steve was glad it was his last before darkness finally overtook him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts Wednesday, June 7th, 2017.


	4. Chapter 4

Vertigo brought burning bile up to Rogers’ mouth though he’d scarce woken up. Swallowing it, he embraced the burn, unpleasant yet grounding, so different from the burn of electricity coursing through him. Human. If he focused on his throat, on his churning stomach, maybe he could ignore how the world spun and churned around him.

_Open your eyes, dammit._

_Steve_ didn’t want to. He didn’t want to see what insanity he was being subjected to now.

_They’re starting to get to me._

_Starting?_

_Why so surprised,_ Rogers _? Better men than you – than I – have broken under sustained torture. Enjoyment of the level of pain they have subjected me to would be inhuman. It’s a sign of my fundamental humanity that it still affects me._

_I’m Captain America. I can’t afford to be human. I have to be more than human. I have to be a mascot, a symbol, an icon. I have to be exemplary. Extraordinary._

_Mighty high opinion of yourself, huh?_

_I am Steve Rogers, a punk from Brooklyn. I never truly wanted to be anything more, and I truly don’t_ have _to be anything more. Steve Rogers is a good man._

_I am a good man._

_And I will open my damn eyes._

Steve opened his eyes.

His surroundings were as topsy-turvy as his spinning thoughts and shattered equilibrium and nausea had suggested. Something – _that’s water, you idiot_ – blurred and stung his vision, sloshed eddies of bubbles around him, and soaked him inside and out. There was water over every inch of his skin. There was water in his lungs, in his gills, water soothing his air-burned tentacles.

Steve closed his eyes again.

There was water everywhere.

And aside from the vertigo, Steve felt _fine_.

_Okay. That’s officially terrifying._

_No it isn’t, you ninny. You weren’t terrified when you could suddenly run a 3 minute mile, world record be damned. This is no different. Just another change._

_And maybe an opportunity._

Opening his eyes again, Steve blinked until the water ceased to cause him discomfort. The more he settled into his environment, the more he accepted it, the more familiar the vertigo became, the better his vision adapted. Heck, he thought he might see better underwater now than he did above water. A quiver of old, familiar nerves quaked through him, and he gave himself time to accommodate, hoped he had time to grow used to being in the water. Swimming was… _not_ Steve’s forte. The first and only time he tried to go out past wading depth at Coney Island, he’d been caught in the undertow and tossed around like a rag doll – _you were a rag doll back then, Steve_ – and ultimately rescued by Bucky.

_“You stupid son of a bitch, what were you thinking?”_

_“Don’t...talk about...my mom...like that...”_

_“You could have_ died _...”_

_“Got you to…to touch me…didn’t it?”_

_“Jesus, Joseph and Mary, if you wanted me to touch you, you could have just_ asked _!”_

_“Aw, Buck, don’t be like that, we both know you’d never say yes. I was just kidding anyway, ‘course I didn’t do that on purpose!”_

_“No, you weren’t kidding, and yes, I_ would _say yes, you…you…you_ impossible _idiot!”_

That had proved to be a _great_ day. A lot that they’d both left unsaid finally came out to the open, and Steve finally, _finally_ got to touch what he’d only ever been able to stare at longingly, finally been allowed to dance and mimic every sway and brush he’d envied dozens of women for being _allowed_ to receive.

There’d still been women after that, but Bucky _always_ came home to Steve.

 _Until he didn’t_.

The saltwater tingle in his eyes finally faded. Steve quashed the distracting thoughts and took inventory of his surroundings. The water in which he – swam? floated? sloshed? drifted? – the water Steve was _in_ was clean, illuminated by sunlight that streamed in from all sides.

_When was the last time I saw sunlight?_

Implication: Steve was in a tank of water with clear sides.

Implication: Said tank was outside.

There was a rumble and the tank jostled so heavily that inertia slammed Steve into the side, his tentacles a tangle that haloed around him. Bubbles surged down from above.

Implication: The tank was in motion.

 _Why? Where am I? Where are they taking me? Where_ was _I?_

_Stop. Focus._

There was no knowing how long they’d be on the move, no knowing if Steve would ever have a better opportunity to make an escape. Practice had made him nominally adept at manipulating his new limbs in the confines of his cage. Swimming was a whole different matter. At Castle Clinton, he’d once watched an octopus move around its tank for half an hour while Bucky flirted with one of the Aquarium employees. There’d been a trick to how the tentacles had moved – they’d bunched up close to the body, then shot back, like cloth spreading then curling in on itself while buoyed by an air current. Steve hadn’t been able to figure out how doing that propelled the octopus, but it had been damn effective.

He was going to have to figure how to emulate a squid, and quick. Using his arms to push off the wall of the tank, he let the tentacles drift while he used only his upper body strength to check the size of his cage. It was small, though larger than where he’d been held at the warehouse. 15 feet, maybe, long and narrow – carried on a train car, or something similar, he thought. A tank with walls thick enough to contain so much water was almost inconceivable and must weigh an unbelievable amount; the addition of water would make it tons heavier.

 _...at least 7500 gallons of water...one gallon weighs 8 pounds...that’s 60,000 pounds of water, 30 tons, and_ none of this is helping _..._

 _...but it might be useful to know that Hydra has the technology to_ do _something like this..._

_Useful to who, exactly?_

_No. Don’t think about a future step. Think about the first step. I have to get out of this tank._

Whatever bore his tank rocked and Steve slammed into the side again. His elbow crunched.

With the leverage Steve had, breaking through the glass wasn’t an option. At full strength, well positioned or with an appropriate weapon, Steve could likely shatter even a tank capable of withstanding as much pressure as this one must be under. Underwater, trapped, with scant control over his body, tossed about by every shock, there was no way. The train jostled him again, knocking him to the other side, and there was a weird tug from one of his tentacles. The tank was narrow, enough so that Steve thought that if he still had legs he’d be cramped, and glancing over his shoulder, Steve could see more than feel where his suckers had suctioned to the glass. The salt tang in his mouth drowned out any flavor that might have produced.

The vehicle – it must be a train – rocked again.

Catching the faint ripple of the water that preceded the greater movement, Steve braced himself, bunched his tentacles beneath him, and when the water sloshed heavily to one side, he pushed with it, slamming himself hard into the opposite side. There was another rock, in the opposite direction, and Steve did the same, pushing as hard as he could. The howl of a steam horn sounded, dull and distorted, through the depths, and through the glass Steve caught glimpses of the stark terrain through which they traveled. It had been March when Steve’s plane had gone down, and it was winter still – or winter again. The train rode through a narrow right-of-way that gleamed brilliant white with snow, surrounded by dense forest: the dark skeletons of deciduous trees, the deep green of firs, and bare distant rocky crags or inconceivable mountains of white built into strange shapes by the prevailing winds. Peaks made shadows along one horizon and the sky was pale and washed out. Steve only recognized that it wasn’t over cast because the scattered clouds were paler still. Occasionally through the trees he caught sight of something glimmering and glinting between the trees – water, a river perhaps, or the ocean.

_A river would be frozen over in this kind of cold. It must be salt water – a sea or the ocean, then._

_If we’re close to the ocean...where_ are _we? The German coast? Scandinavia? Poland? Russia?_

_I’ve seen the German coast and it sure doesn’t look like this. I crashed in the arctic. The Hydra foot soldiers were speaking Russian. All of that suggests..._

_Nothing. It suggest absolutely nothing of value. I’ve been out of touch for unknown months or years. I don’t know if the war is over. I don’t know if the push to topple Hitler was successful, if, with that done, the Russians and the other Allies turned on each other. I don’t know if Japan is still fighting. All I know is what immediately surrounds me. I’m somewhere north. Somewhere cold. Somewhere near the ocean._

_I’m naked. If I escape, I’ll freeze to death._

_Maybe? I’m in a tank of water. There’s only glass between me and the world. How cold is the water that surrounds me? I can’t tell._

_Tentacles. Gills. Eyes that can withstand salt water and still easily see underwater. And cold tolerance. I’m gaining all sorts of interesting new abilities._

_First step is to get out._

_Second step is to not die of exposure._

_I bet if I get back in water, that will help._

Another jolt teetered the car and Steve pushed again, pushed harder. Control of his tentacles was coming more quickly than he’d expected, their movements more natural and understandable and, somehow, _instinctual_ when he was underwater. Bunching them beneath him, he pushed as hard as he could. The train rocked so far to one side that there was a clang as it settled back down, and Steve didn’t wait for chance to deliver the next swing, he pushed off again with all his considerable might and slammed into the opposite wall of the tank. There was a screech of metal on metal, the train car jostled, and Steve rocked it again, again, working with the train’s unsteadiness when he could. The horn sounded and Steve moved faster, faster. He was running out of time. How he knew that, he couldn’t have said, but he was _sure_.

A current of warmer water streamed from the far end of the tank, the liquid tinged green.

 _Faster, Steve_.

He didn’t want to know what his captors were releasing into the water. They can’t have meant for him to wake up during this journey, but their persistent inability to gauge his body right, to give him the right dosages of medication, had finally, _finally_ brought him out of sedation at a time when awareness was actually _helpful_ instead of pure, unrelenting agony. Steve pushed off one wall, the opposite wall, again and again. The water sloshed and foamed, roiled with currents mirroring of the back-and-forth swing of the train car and the whiplash-quick jerks of Steve’s tentacles. Darting back and forth, Steve only caught glimpses of outside – trees, deep snow, glittering water, trees, peaks…and a turn in the tracks, hard to the left.

_If I push into the turn…_

Redoubling his efforts, Steve accelerated, bouncing from wall to wall. The screech of the wheels over the tracks as the train hit the turn was shockingly loud and oddly painful, but he pushed away the distraction. The water was growing greener, his muscles were weakening – due to his efforts or the unknown chemical, he had no idea.

He’d only get one chance at this.

The train rocked into the turn.

Steve slammed into the inner wall. The outer wheels left the tracks and fell back down with a shriek and a clank.

The train rocked to the outside of the curve.

Steve slammed into the outer wall.

For what felt like a lifetime, the train car teetered, balancing on the edge of the wheels. It hovered in limbo, and Steve kept pushing, kept pushing, straining, and then the water rebounded hard against the top corner of the tank and the equilibrium of the moment shattered. Creaking, the car over-balanced and crashed down. Water rushed around him, glass splintered and cracked like artillery, and pain lanced through Steve’s shoulder.

Blackness overtook him.

_No, crap, no! I can’t lose consciousness now, they’ll take me again…have to…I have to…!_

Air struck him and light glowed brilliant pink against his eyelids. His hands scrambled at whatever was beneath him – snow, cold and wet and heavy, and glass fragments that pricked his flesh – and his tentacles flailed uselessly.

_Calm! I have to keep calm!_

The feel of water flushing from his gills was surreal, his brain screaming oxygen deprivation as his lungs pumped out the liquid filling them. Wind flash-froze the water coating his tentacles, dried them, and the familiar ache of desiccation provided yet _another_ distraction he didn’t need.

Machine gun fire rattled loud around him, bullets making a soft _pfft_ as they struck the snow, a louder _ping-crack_ as they embedded in the trees.

_Eyes. Open. Now._

Water streamed down his face, ice crystals trying to bind his eyes closed, but blinked, got his arms under himself, and pushed himself up. He didn’t dare stop moving long enough to check where he was going – _you fool, the body of water is in the other direction!_ – and he took in the world in streaked, distorted snapshots of brown trunks, white snow, and green needles. Shouts and the shriek of the train’s horn spurred him on; the gunfire stopped, resumed, stopped again.

_Stand – need to stand – can’t stand, don’t have legs, can I walk? Can I run?_

In the confines of his tiny cage, Steve hadn’t been able to attempt locomotion.

But he _had_ to move.

Arms lifting his torso, Steve didn’t think about _how_ to proceed. With no idea what he did or how he did it, he bunched his tentacles beneath himself and _scurried_ toward the shelter of the tree line. Boots crunched in deep snow behind him, and his hands sank into the soft white fluff with every “step” but he kept pushing, kept pushing, on hands and wiggly wobbly boneless “knees.” His tentacles were lighter than legs. They didn’t break the layer of sun-melted ice that gleamed atop the drifts, and he wasn’t slowed by the need to drag himself up and over and through the depths. Shoving himself up, Steve balanced as best he could. Whenever he thought about movement, thought about the coordination involved in manipulating his tentacles, he tottered and nearly fell, but if he focused on the task at hand – _dodge amidst the trees, head toward safety, shake off the pursuit, circle back toward the water_ – he moved fluidly, easily, as naturally as running or swimming, when he had legs.

The shouts faded behind him quickly as he sprinted through the woods, mirroring the railroad cut. The forest was dense, so thick that the snow made strange piles around voids where the carpet of brown pine needles was soft beneath him and tasted of floor cleaner, acid and varnish. Pain twinged down his side, and the glimpses he got of his hands showed him blotches of tacky red and the sparkle of glass shards.

_Well, at least they didn’t shoot me._

Running hard – _is running the right word for this? It’s…sort of more like…rolling? –_ Steve stumbled (stumbled?) over an exposed tree root and only caught his balance thanks to three tentacles instinctually darting before him and a fourth wrapping around a nearby tree. Rough bark abraded his suction cups, but he didn’t fall.

_I need a whole new vocabulary for this…but not now._

When Steve had time to practice, he’d learn what he could do, he’d try climbing the trees and using his tentacles to swing, he’d consider all his new abilities. Hydra hadn’t _hurt_ him, not permanently. Hydra had made him even more of a force to be reckoned with than he already was.

_How much weight can an individual tentacle support? Will I be able to swing? Will I be able to use the suction cups to adhere to ceilings, walls, glass, sheer surfaces? How long will I be comfortable out of water? How much fine manipulation will I have, and how thin a space will I be able to sneak a tentacle through? There are so many possibilities! Did Hydra realize what they were doing when they changed me? They must have – and must have assumed these abilities would be theirs to command._

_I will_ never _be theirs to command._

Breathing hard, cold air searing his lungs, Steve stopped with a hand on a tree trunk and listened. His tentacles went limp and useless beneath him and he slumped toward the forest floor.

The silence was so absolute that even the faint hiss of his tentacles sliding against each other seemed loud.

Edging toward the border between the forest and the railway cut, Steve chanced a glance down the cleared right-of-way. The train was out of sight. Nothing moved save the tree branches swaying in the breeze. Shattered chunks of ice and clumps of snow scattered over the crossties at irregular intervals. The snow was so deep that the train embankment scarce appeared to rise above the ground level, pristine white crisscrossed by tracks where light animals scurried over the surface without sinking down.

Steve had seen no wildlife.

In the distance, the train whistle sounded faintly. A bird startled from a nearby tree with a caw and the flap of powerful wings.

Steve had seen _one_ example of local wildlife.

_Not out of the woods yet, Steve._

_Literally or figuratively_.

_At least it’s not so cold that nothing lives here in the winter._

_I wish I knew how cold it was._

_I wish I knew if this weather counted as “winter” wherever this is._

_Still. Things could be worse. The world is snow and ice, so it must be frigid, yet I’m naked and I barely feel it._

_Wow._

Closing his eyes, trusting the instincts that controlled his body when his sense could not, Steve bolted across the cleared area. The snow was cold, the sunlight a lovely contrast. Drifts made the rise to the embankment gradual, and Steve only realized he’d crested it when he felt splintered wood and harsh metal under his suction cups. Tiny bursts of pain came every time a tentacle latched onto the steel then tore free – _right, in this kind of cold, wet things freeze instantly to metal –_ but Steve didn’t open his eyes and didn’t try to avoid the contact. If he _thought_ about what he was doing he’d end up sprawled neck deep in the snow, exposed and in the open, easy prey for any Hydra soldier who took the simple step of searching for him by walking along the tracks.

Steve smacked into a tree and sprawled to the ground.

Stunned, he blinked, half-expecting to see stars like in some Technicolor pre-movie short Mickey Mouse bonanza. The world flashed bright white and dull brown with each blink.

_Still out in the open, idiot._

The trunk of the tree was smooth beneath his fingers, bark flaking at a touch, and he used it as a guide. With his…not feet…under him, he pushed himself to keep walking – _more like creeping_ – over the snow. Moving more slowly, he reached out before him with four tentacles, using them to navigate as a blind man might use a stick.

_Another skill to practice. I should be able to map out around myself to the length of the tentacles without opening my eyes. Once I’ve learned some common “tastes” I should even be able to tell what the things around me are made of._

The more Steve learned about his new body, the more he liked it. Sure, he looked weird, and he was even less human than he’d already been, but the advantages were numerous and undeniable.

His skin twinged dry pain.

But there were disadvantages, too.

He _had_ to get in water.

Past the exposed rail cut, Steve opened his eyes and delved into the woods, following the gleams of light that occasionally flickered between the thick tree trunks, promising open water. There was less need to rush now that he’d put some distance between himself and his presumed pursuers. Instead, he focused on disrupting his environment as little as possible. Where he moved over snow, there was no obscuring his trail, but he kept to cleared areas as much as possible and tried to…step…lightly. Whatever other creatures might live in this forest, none made a trail like his – suction cup circles and a divot like a snake had gone across the ice. Steve eyed the trees again. They’d not think to look _up_ , would they? But he didn’t feel confident in his ability to navigate solely using the strength, dexterity, and suctioning ability of his tentacles. A fall could have serious consequences, given the cold, the dangers of exposure, and the risk of recapture.

_The risks posed by the weather will be greater for them than for me. I seem relatively impervious to cold now, even more so than I was after taking the serum, whereas my pursuers are merely human._

_Unless they’re not._

_How many more people like Schmidt exist, twisted and tainted and empowered by the serum? How many more people might they have experimented on as they experimented on me? How many have they enhanced by chemicals and body modification? For them to have done such an expert job on me, I can’t be the first._

_Expert job? If not for my ability to heal, I’d have bled to death. What Hydra is doing is one part madness, one part method, one part brutality, and all the rest luck._

_Maybe._

_I need more information_.

The trees thinned as Steve moved. Areas without snow were sparser and farther apart, and Steve resigned himself to leaving a trail. Once he was in water, he could swim in any direction. They’d never be able to track _that_. The gaps between the trees shimmered as sunlight played off what lay ahead, and Steve moved faster, anticipating escape, but there was no end to the forest. He moved fast - as he established a rhythm, nearly as fast as he could run, and as tirelessly despite the frigid air ghosting clouds into the air with every exhale – and the trees thinned, grew more stunted and twisted by the cold and the wind as miles passed.

There was no way he could have seen so far through the tangle of trunks.

_Then what…_

Ice. Steve had been fooled by the ice.

 _Alright. No more bull rushing forward. Time to stop and take stock of the situation_.

Panting, Steve came to a halt. His knowledge of ecosystems and terrain was scant, and he’d never been anywhere similar to this. Nothing in 20-some-odd years of New York City winters could compare to this. Eighteen inches of snow in Prospect Park had seemed intimidating to him in ’35. Bucky had pegged him in the head with a snowball. Steve’s mom had scolded both of them with a smile twisting her lips when they’d finally gotten back to Steve’s place, soaked and frigid.

This made the cold and snow then seem like a walk in the park. It was incomparable.

_Ha ha ha._

_Well there was that time I was frozen in the ice for unknown weeks._

_Not helping!_

Tundra, he supposed this was called, glancing at the terrain around him. All he could see, presumably for miles, was deep snow, broken sporadically, randomly, by spruce trees. He’d gone maybe 15 miles in what he thought had been roughly an hour, though time and distance were difficult to gauge. The military had trained Steve on recon and forward observation, but he didn’t know where he was, didn’t have a map, had no idea of his starting or ending point, and hadn’t a single landmark to use for reference. If he had legs, if he had the abilities he was familiar with, he could at least use that to base his estimate in, but his new body was a cipher. He had so much to learn, so much to hone, so much to experiment with.

First step had been to escape Hydra, escape the water tank and the train.

First step: accomplished!

Bonus: whatever they’d released into the water hadn’t harmed him, and however strangely his eyes had been working, he’d finally adapted, for his vision out of water seemed as normal and unobstructed and clear as his vision in water had been.

 _Count every small blessing, Rogers. They may be few and far between in the days and weeks to come_.

Second step: find water.

_Alright. Logically…_

Logically, any fresh water around him was frozen. There could be a hundred bodies of water, ranging up to a river a half mile wide and as deep, hiding under the flawless blanket of snow. He’d never know the difference, nor did he have any means of piercing through thick ice to reach salvation beneath. He wasn’t even sure if fresh water would help him. Hydra had put him in a saltwater tank. They’d know what his body was adapted for, wouldn’t they?

_Not really._

_Another experiment I need to conduct._

_I’d kill for a sheet of paper and a pencil._

He’d killed for less, fighting Hydra and the Nazis.

_Not. Helping._

Logically…

Logically, he was either far north, in the Arctic circle, or far south, in the Antarctic circle. North made more sense for myriad reasons, not least being that Steve had ditched Schmidt’s plane in the Arctic. That there was forest meant that Steve wasn’t still in the Arctic – he was 95% sure that the Arctic was a nigh-endless sea of solid ice and that nothing grew there. Recalling what he could of geography, Steve was nearly positive that, if he was on land, there wasn’t a place on the planet that he wouldn’t reach water by going north, presupposing that he was at the Arctic circle instead of the Antarctic.

It might be a _long_ walk, but it wasn’t like Steve had anything better to do.

Easing down onto the ice, Steve caught his breath and made note of where the sun was, lining it up with a distinctive tree silhouetted dark against the horizon. Back the way he’d come, the trees made a thick, dark line flanked by the shadow of mountains in the distance, dark blue against the paler shade of the sky, but before him was flat, snow and ice in dune-like drifts, the only colors the brownish gray of trunks and the deep green of pine needles.

Logically, north was probably one of the flat, icy directions.

Better to be sure.

Steve meticulously counted off sixty 30 times, idly picking bits of glass from the small cuts peppering his hands, using the point of one piece to scratch a tally in the snow, watching the sun advance. He could scarce see the difference from count to count, but by the time he finished, the dull orb had shifted to his left as compared to the tree on the horizon.

He was facing north.

 _Thank God, and Peggy for teaching me how to figure out anything worthwhile when I’m_ not _in a damn metropolis._

Depending on where he was, in Scandinavia or Russia or Canada or Alaska, west might be a better bet for finding water than north. He could end up inadvertently shadowing the coast for miles, prolonging his journey, risking his life. Exposure didn’t seem an issue so far, but it was daytime.

_How long has it been daytime? How long will it be daytime?_

The sun gave negligible but existent warmth, caused a sheen of melt on the surface of the ice surrounding him. There was no guessing what time of year it was; so far north, for all Steve knew it was snowy year ‘round, but if it were summer the days would be long. If it was winter…it had already been light, as bright as full day, for three hours. Was that normal? Steve had studied the climate and ecology of the areas in which he fought as part of surviving the war, but no one had prepped him for a mission in an extreme climate. As out of whack as Steve’s temperature sense was, he couldn’t guess how cold it was, though the sheer volume of snow surrounding him, and the limited impact the sun seemed to have on it, was suggestive.

_Think, Steve, think. How am I supposed to survive in the Arctic?_

_Or Antarctic…_

His tentacles had frozen to steel railroad tracks. It must be below freezing – likely far below freezing – and it would be colder when the sun went down.

Information wasn’t going to fall from the sky and tell him the right way to go.

He had to roll the dice, take a chance, and get moving.

Reaching his arms up, Steve stretched. Pain twinged in his side and shoulder. With a frown, he twisted. A large piece of glass was embedded in a jagged cut in lower back. He hadn’t even _noticed_. Blood froze bright red against his skin, crystallized around the injury.

Blood was _extremely_ bright against the snow.

Nervous, Steve glanced back the way he’d come, but there was nothing to see save the plain of ice and snow and the scattered trees. Not a trace of red. They couldn’t track him that way. Relieved, he dropped his arms to his sides.

His wounds were minor annoyances. They’d heal.

Steve _had_ to get to safety.

Strain as he might, there was no angle from which Steve could grasp the glass in his back effectively enough to draw it out. Making a frustrated tsk, he tried again, again, but all he managed to do was tear the cut open wider, a sluggish ooze of blood dripping down toward his tentacles. For the first time, he noticed that there was no clear line demarking where his human torso ended and his new kraken limbs began. When the surgery had first been done there’d been an obvious seam, above which he was a man, below which he was the weirdest octopus the world had ever seen. However many weeks had passed had healed the wound, and the dark skin of his tentacles faded gradually up his abdomen, shades of gray fading until they were indistinguishable from his normal peach-brown hue.

_That’s not my “normal” skin tone any more. Congratulations, Steve, there’s a new normal in town, and it’s festooned in suction cups._

Steve laughed, then shook his head at his own stupidity. There he was, injuring himself trying to pivot far enough around to grab something embedded in his back, when he had _twenty damn prehensile tentacles_ that could _easily_ grasp what his arms couldn’t reach. Manipulating his tentacles intentionally was still difficult, but he managed to focus on _one_ (while two others flailed uselessly in response to his thoughts), lift it, and suction onto the exposed parts of the glass. Sharp edges nicked against sensitive flesh, and the glass tasted of dried salt water and the copper of blood. Steve couldn’t finesse the limb well enough to get the leverage to pull the glass out, but he could grasp the tentacle in his hands and tug, hard. The chunk tore free with a disgusting sound and a splash of fresh blood that steamed when it struck the ice beneath him. He disengaged his suction cups with a thought and the piece dropped, jagged corner sinking into the snow. The flow of blood slowed, as he watched the wound began to knit shut.

 _Logically, if I’m to have a hope of surviving this, I have_ got _to start remembering that I’m more than a man, more than a super soldier, and using that to my advantage._

There were variables than Steve could hope to guess at or suss out by logic alone. All he could do was examine the possibilities, make his best guess, and go follow through until he either found safety or obtained additional data with which to inform a better decision. The sun slowly crept west toward the far horizon, and in the far distance, he heard the distinct buzz of a plane engine.

Time was running out.

Ignoring the rumble in his stomach – _I’ll get hungry, but I won’t starve; my time in the ice proved that, for better or for worse_ – Steve gathered his tentacles beneath him and sped toward the northern horizon.

_I have to hope luck is with me._

_Damn, but I_ hate _relying on luck._

 _Because seriously, when in my life has luck_ ever _been with me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter will post Friday, June 9th, 2017.


	5. Chapter 5

Brilliant orange sunlight set the horizon afire, danced flames over the crest of the waves that lapped at the rocky, icy shoreline. Jumbled stones showed dark despite snow and ice thick amidst them, the air so cold that even salt water froze. Floes drifted and bobbed in the surf. Where the waves made trenches, the water was dark, striking a chord of existential fear deep in Steve’s soul. The depths were home to the unknown.

_And, soon, they’ll be home to me as well. I am the unknown. I am something completely new._

_Crap I have got to stop getting all deep when I’m over-tired._

_Deep. Ha. Ha. Ha. Good one, Steve._

Wind sprayed droplets into the air, scattered them over the rocks and against Steve’s skin. They struck as sleet, frozen in the scant moments they were in the air. Though the cold still didn’t _bother_ Steve, he could tell it _was_ colder than it had been. Even moving as quickly as he could, it had taken all day for Steve to reach the coast. He’d covered 40 or 50 miles, he thought. Now that he’d found the coast, he saw that he could have shaved distance off if he’d gone northwest instead of north, for the coast stretched north and east to his right, south and west to his left, piers of stone and ice stretching like fingers into the murky foam. The waves were gentle, to his surprise, ripples catching the sunset. His injuries had stopped hurting hours ago, healed over even as he exerted himself. Fatigue left him shaking, his new limbs limply curling around themselves and draping over the rocks beneath him. The stones tasted tangy, salty and vaguely spinach-like.

Tasting things through his “feet” was weird.

Everything about this was weird.

Not unwelcome, per se, but very, very weird.

Creeping forward, Steve moved over unanchored rocks and eddying pools, maintaining his balance by spreading his tentacles out and minutely shifting his weight as needed. On foot, he’d have struggled, but his new limbs made this terrain easy to navigate. There was plenty he wasn’t sure about yet as regarded his new body: how sleeping would work, for starters, the heaviness in his eyelids making rest imperative, and what he’d eat, and if he could drink salt water now or if he’d need to find fresh water to consume. Swimming in a small tank with no currents was one thing; diving into the Arctic Ocean another entirely. The waves continually tugged blocks of ice larger than his body down into the depths, betraying the strength of the undertow beneath the supposed placidity of the sun-touched ripples. If Steve were hit by one of those floes, he could be injured, rendered unconscious, or worse. Even should he survive, there was no knowing where the tides and currents might carry him while he was out.

Not that he had a clue where he was _now_ , anyway.

Still, maybe jumping right in was _not_ his best idea.

On the other hand, the water would insulate him from the worst of the cold. Avoiding a theoretical bonk on the head would be cold comfort – _ha!_ – if he froze to death instead.

 _Or, worse, if I become trapped again, and Hydra finds me again and thaws me again, and I’m right back where I started_.

As tired as he was, Steve forced himself to think his situation through and consider his options. Stands of rocks dotted the shore, carried there by who-knew-what – glaciers, Steve suspected, remembering what he’d once read about glaciers pushing enough matter before them to form the entirety of Long Island. All he needed was one cave just beneath the surface of the water, one overhang half-in and half-out of water. Gliding into the shallows, Steve started down the coast – south, because even a fraction of a degree warmer sounded right up his alley, and because he couldn’t imagine a single advantage to being farther north, whereas if he kept going south surely he’d reach _something_ helpful eventually.

_Hey, if I go north, I could get famous like Peary, Steve Rogers, first cephalopod to reach the North Pole!_

Steve went south.

The sun gradually set.

The waves ebbed and flowed about his tentacles, water creeping higher up the coast line as the tide came in. Time was meaningless, but Steve made a mental note of the position of the sun. Learning the tides would likely prove important in the days to come, and the more information he had, the better. Ahead of him, a spit of land stretched maybe a quarter mile into the ocean, and Steve steeled his nerve in preparation for delving into the deep and exploring around the peninsula. Rock formations made eerie silhouettes against the darkening sky, and…

Steve frowned.

At the end of the peninsula there was a heap of rocks that seemed too regular. The sides were too straight, the top too flat.

Whatever it was _must_ be manmade.

Steve dove into the water.

_Brilliant. Because if they haven’t already seen me, moving quickly will solve all my problems._

Cold enveloped him, flooded into his body, weird yet comforting. This wasn’t familiar _yet_ but Steve could easily see how it would become so with time. Currents swirled his tentacles, tugged them toward the depths, and though they were close to shore the water was deep. Blinking, Steve waited for his vision to clear. It _did_ clear, which shocked Steve. As dark as it was growing above ground, Steve could scarce believe that he could faintly see beneath the waves. Wherever the water coursed over submerged rocks, wherever swirls and tiny whirlpools eddied, wherever one of Steve’s tentacles cut through the currents, spots of blue and green glowed in twirls through the depths. It was captivating, beautiful, and Steve thought he could spend hours watching the patterns that formed. The light provided was minimal – surely not enough that Steve would be able to see by it in normal circumstances – yet by the ethereal flickers that appeared and vanished without explanation, Steve was able to develop a sense of what surrounded him. Sticking to the shallows, he continued toward the landmass.

Steve’s fears of the undertow proved unfounded. He wasn’t a confident swimmer, but much like with “running,” when he didn’t think about what he was doing, cutting through the water was effortless. In little ways, he tried to pay attention to what his thoughts and his limbs did automatically, what he’d tried to do intentionally earlier in the day in his tank. His arms helped him steer, gave him direction, reached before him, while his tentacles bunched close to his torso and then surged back to provide propulsion.

It was effective.

Up until Steve tried to do it consciously.

 _Then_ he banged his head into a rock.

Grumbling under his breath – _really, Steve? No breath. No sound. I’m underwater!_ – mouthing meaninglessly at salt water, Steve rubbed the sore spot and used his other arm to navigate. Huge clouds of phosphorescence spoke to some obstruction churning the currents ahead of him. He’d have sworn it was too soon for him to be at the point of land already, but he had no sense of how fast he could swim. Whatever was before him might be submerged rocks, or the carcass of an animal, or…coral? Did coral grow this far north?

Steve didn’t think so.

A brilliant swirl of glittering motes twisted around what was, unmistakably, a conning tower.

Alarm flashed fear through Steve that dissipated a moment later. The water wasn’t deep enough for a submarine to be effectively submerged, which meant it must have sunk there, maybe captured by the tides, or attacked by another ship. Swimming closer, by the faint glow Steve could see a machine gun turret, weapon still mounted, and the bent remains of a protective fence. The metal tore jaggedly where the boat had torn open when it grounded on the ocean floor. One of the periscopes stood tall enough that at low tide it must be above the water; the other had torn off; Steve spotted it sticking straight up from the seafloor like a gravestone. Another burst of light – were they getting brighter, or were Steve’s eyes adapting? – highlighted the Iron Cross painted on the side of the conning tower.

_German U-Boat. Type…2._

Approaching, Steve circled the sunken hulk. A second machine gun stood behind the conning tower. Steve picked through what he remembered of the marine identification charts he’d memorized.

_Type 2D had two machine gun turrets. Coastal surveillance and shallow water reconnaissance. Built between 1939 and 1940. This wreck is likely years old._

_I guess how many years depends on how long I was Hydra’s POW._

_Months, certainly, just from what I remember._

_Likely at least six, judging by the season. If they took me in winter…even this area must have a spring, a summer, a fall, however short they are._

_And—_

One of Steve’s tentacles tangled in loose steel cording floating in the ocean, torn free from the apex of the conning tower. Muttering a curse, he twisted to free himself, pushing away his errant thoughts. However much time had passed, he’d manage. He had more important questions to wonder about, such as how the wreckage related to the structure he’d spotted atop the nearby outcrop.

The peninsula proved to be closer than Steve had expected, confirming his supposition that he swam faster than he’d realized – as fast as he ran, maybe faster. The waves breaking overhead made a continual dull roar, and the scattering of light hitting the surface of the water had faded, suggesting the sun had set. Even so, Steve could still see. The salt no longer stung his eyes, either, and all sense of cold had faded.

He’d had no idea his body would adapt so quickly.

Had Hydra known? Or at least suspected? For the first time, it crossed Steve’s mind that Hydra _had_ had someone they could test: Schmidt himself. Schmidt had taken the serum, and was certainly crazy enough to test further innovations on himself.

Steve needed…wanted?...no, _needed_ so much information.

He broke the surface of the water. Frigid air burned his skin, much colder than the water had been, and he looked toward land. The shape of the stone protrusion showed only as a void in the smattering of stars that grew denser as the night grew darker. His hair froze, windswept, and his eyelashes went stiff. Steve didn’t think he’d ever been aware of his eyelashes as a discrete part of himself before. It was weird.

 _Right._ That’s _the weirdest thing my body has done recently. Of course. Fantastic._

Whatever the temperature had been during the day, now that night had fallen and there was no forest cover to protect him from the arctic winds sweeping down from the north, he knew his limit. However cold it had been during the day, he could survive. This, he couldn’t.

Exploring the building would have to wait until tomorrow. Steve needed a place of safety, and rest, and maybe food if he could find some.

All of those things might be in the sunken U-Boat.

Diving beneath the waves, Steve hastened to the tear in the hull. Close, Steve could see patches of the polished steel exterior covered by darker plant growth, though he couldn’t make out the nature of the plants. From what Steve could see, there was no evidence that a weapon had struck the submarine; instead, it looked like it had settled on the seafloor at an angle and broken neatly in half under the strain. The gap left was wide enough for Steve to swim within. The glow scarce followed him, only faint sparkles scarce able to illuminate the pitch black of the chamber. Tentacles floated about him, brushing hard surfaces in all directions. There’d be no exploring that evening, no searching for food or information that might explain his location. Heck, if Steve couldn’t find a flashlight that had survived extended immersion he might be up the creek without a paddle regardless.

_Really, Steve? Water puns?_

_What, too soon?_

Glittery phosphorescence would not provide enough light for Steve to see in the lost chambers of the submarine.

If he wasn’t able to win through the bulkheads it’d be a moot point.

If he didn’t get some damn _sleep_ it’d _all_ be moot. There’d be time to explore when morning came. The water wasn’t so deep that some light wouldn’t filter through, especially at low tide.

Navigating into a corner by feel, Steve wrapped his tentacles protectively around himself, rested his arms on a cool wall and his head on his arms, and wondered how long it would take him to relax into sleep.

* * *

_Dammit, am I_ ever _going to fall asleep?_

Disgruntled and frustrated, Steve opened his eyes.

Faint light gleamed as patches of shimmering gray in the gaps between his gently drifting tentacles. Water flowed in and out of his lungs, sending cascades of bubbles that caught in the piping above him and drifted in the stillness.

_Or I was so exhausted I slept and didn’t realize it._

_I hate when that happens. Damn disorienting._

Steve parted his tentacles to see around him.

Steve _tried_ to part his tentacles.

They were hopelessly tangled.

Grumbling silent save for a stream of air bubbles, Steve got to work undoing the mess.

_This is more annoying than when Ma used to make me fix her knitting._

As he slowly undid the jumbled knot of his body – _things I never, ever, ever imagined myself thinking_ – he got a better view of the room surrounding him. Steve hadn’t been on a submarine before, and though he’d spoken with people who had and seen schematics, he hadn’t realized how claustrophobic the surroundings were. Alone in the remains of the room, Steve was comfortable, but six bunk beds, or, rather, six shelves scarce high enough for a man to breathe in, made cubbies along the two sides of the room. The space Steve occupied was only empty because beneath him was a tiny table surrounded by seating that looked barely adequate for two but, given what Steve knew of duty rotations, likely was meant to accommodate four. Steve floated in the head clearance over the table. A narrow hallway divided the bunks, three to a side, and looking at it now Steve hadn’t a clue how he’d navigated it in darkness while exhausted.

A severed arm, skin grayed but otherwise preserved in the frozen depths, floated in one of the cubbies.

_Does that mean this is recent? Behind air-tight bulkheads, might I find troops alive? If they are, and I open the doors, they’ll drown before I can get to them. They’re Nazis but they’re still people. They deserve better than that._

When Steve finally undid the last of the ridiculous loops tying his tentacles together, he set about exploring the cabin. Despite the hum and crash of waves sloshing and breaking on the coast, the waters in the cabin were still, almost miasmic. More than just the arm was decaying here, had decayed here, and murk dissipated and diffused into cleaner water around Steve as he swam. The water seemed warmer than he remembered it being, too, either his imagination or the action of the sunlight or Steve’s body heat suffusing his surroundings. The bunks were regulation bare, four of the six precisely made, the other two disheveled as if those lying in them had been asleep when disaster struck. A mound beneath the blankets of one suggested the corpse yet present, though the head was missing and the gently billowing blanket obscured what flesh might remain. The kind of information Steve needed was unlikely to be on the person of someone who died asleep, so he left the poor soul to find what rest it may.

Beneath the bunks were tiny drawers that, Steve suspected, were the entirety of the space the men had for their personal effects. Scrunching down as close to the ground as he could – he couldn’t _imagine_ how full grown men could have bent down small enough to access the drawers in the narrow walkway, and wondered if the Nazis had imposed a maximum height restriction on those allowed to serve in their U-Boats – Steve pulled the first drawer open. A cascade of bubbles burst free, forming and breaking and melding as they traveled up, and dark green fronds drifted in the scant open spaces between belongings, algae grown amidst the things. Steve’s sense of touch was numbed by the cold but he worked as carefully as he could, brushing aside the plant life to reveal a moldering spare uniform and two books – a worn, utterly waterlogged copy of Mein Kampf, and a brick-like copy of Volk ohne Raum.

 _Well, now I have drawer where I can put the trash_.

The next drawer was equally useless, and Steve emptied the contents into the first drawer, stuffing it so full he had trouble closing it again. Space was at a premium, for the original inhabitants of the sub and for Steve. The third drawer was empty – someone must have been doing laundry or something – and the fourth was filled with photographs, the inks of which had run in the water. The fifth contained a mystery, in the form of a length of waxed cotton wrapped so tightly around whatever it protected that Steve thought it might actually be dry within. The last contained several books and a stuffed toy. Steve wished he’d never seen it. These men were dead, and before they’d died they’d been his enemies, and he didn’t have time for the sympathetic twinge in his heart, didn’t have the energy to waste empathizing with and humanizing corpses. He was too worried about the living.

Gathering up the intact package in one tentacle, Steve finished his examination of the space. The walls were bare, the table empty, and the four beds that didn’t show signs of containing dead bodies were lifeless save for a single red spindly round creature that Steve hurriedly covered with the blanket again. He didn’t want to think about waking up with that thing on him. Roaches were one thing, underwater porcupine monsters quite another.

The door at the near end of the bunk room was shut tight. Steve didn’t attempt to open it, but he rapped his knuckles against the thick metal. His hand hurt, he hit it so hard, but only a dull noise answered, muted by the material and the water around him. Steve listened for a replying knock that might suggest survivors, but he heard nothing. Setting an ear to the door, he tried again. The sound reverberated strangely, and for no reason he could put his finger on Steve thought it might be hollow on the other side – might be free from water – but he didn’t hear anything else, not a tick or a beep or an answering knock. That didn’t necessarily mean anything, but it implied the worst.

Swimming down the hall, Steve passed the breach in the hull, a dazzling white crack where light streamed down, each ray discrete and visible as it refracted through the depths. The door on the opposite end of the hall rested open, a box beside it labeled “In Case of Emergencies” in blocky, stenciled German. It hadn’t been opened, even though what surrounded Steve certainly appeared to have been an emergency.

He opened it.

First aid supplies spilled out, scissors and tubes of something drifting to the floor, several loose bandages and a thing of string floating up and out of the broken ship. A flashlight was secured by a length of fabric, and, inexplicably, an axe. Steve didn’t want to imagine what kind of emergency on a submarine might require an axe, but he was grateful to find a weapon. There wasn’t a trace of rust on the steel head, suggesting it was either well made or had not been submersed for long. Steve made a cursory inspection of the items that seemed intact, gathering up the tubes though the labels were beyond his knowledge of German, wrapping everything in a bandage that had caught beneath a pair of scissors and been dragged to the ground. He took those up in a second tentacle and continued to the back of the submarine.

The room he entered was a perfect mirror of the first he’d inspected, identical in nearly every detail, including being home to two more corpses. These two were in the lower bunks, though. and thus were harder to ignore. The water smelled and tasted of rot, though the bodies were largely intact, and Steve was rapidly developing a disgust with his prehensile limbs’ ability to taste what they touched. Doing his best to avoid touching anything near the bodies – _is it a sense like smell, like the way a snake’s tongue “tastes” the air, or do I actually ingest something when my suckers brush a substance? That seems unlikely but if I did I could get damn sick “tasting” dead bodies_ – Steve ransacked the drawers. He found more uniforms, more books, a journal that he didn’t dare open but thought might still be legible if he was careful, a grooming kit that he took, and an assortment of knickknacks that did nothing to lessen the reminder of evil and wrongness that rattled Steve with every additional copy of Mein Kampf he uncovered. If only judging by their reading material, these men seemed to have been true believers.

Of course, every book they brought aboard was surely monitored, and those that didn’t meet the Fuhrer’s standards burned, so there was no knowing what the men actually thought.

_If I find a survivor, maybe I’ll ask..._

Every uniform was identical, a jacket that Steve thought gray or maybe navy bearing the Parteiadler over the right breast, four pockets, epaulettes and a line of brass buttons with a relief of an anchor-and-rope insignia. Matching pants and a plain white shirt completed the ensemble. Some of the soldiers had additional honors, stored in keepsake boxes or pinned to bags. Several of the pin backs broke under Steve’s fingers, metal corroded, the first solid evidence Steve had that the wreckage couldn’t be recent.

The odds of finding anyone alive seemed slim. If they were lucky, they died in the crash. If they were unlucky...no human would be able to open the bulkhead doors against the pressure and weight of the water overhead.

What a horrible way to die.

Gathering up the few items Steve thought potentially useful – the first aid kit, the journal, a handful of odds and ends, a few pictures he thought might survive being dried, and whatever was wrapped in waxed cloth – he swam for the surface. Differentiating the tentacles with which he held things from those that he could use to propel himself proved challenging, and he ultimately had to grab the four tentacles bearing the items and hold them in his hands to keep himself from automatically trying to use them to swim. Damn, but he needed to do a _lot_ of practicing. His new body had an incredible amount of potential that would be utterly, completely, embarrassingly wasted if he didn’t train extensively.

With a gasp, Steve broke water, his hair slapping back against his neck. _When did it get long enough to do that?_ Daylight dazzled his eyes, brighter than he’d expected. The depths hadn’t _seemed_ dim until he came up and saw the contrast. Surf broke and frothed around him, the top of the periscope sticking out of the water. A single seagull perched atop the periscope; it eyed him beadily and cawed, and for the first time in ages Steve felt a jerking clench of homesickness in the pit of his stomach. He might be on the Coney Island boardwalk. It might be winter, the wind blowing frigid, he and Bucky and the gulls the only souls about. He might be home. Bucky might be alive. Maybe it was after the war, maybe they were showing Peggy around New York City, _their_ New York City, not the one she’d seen working for SSR. They could have been any three veterans, any three survivors, finally free to enjoy the fruits of what they’d fought and sacrificed so much for.

Instead, Bucky was dead, Steve was unrecognizable, and Peggy...

_God, I hope Peggy is alright..._

The seagull squawked and took flight.

Shaking his head, water splattering around him, Steve swam for shore. It was farther than he expected; he’d tended out to sea in his swim through the dark waves the night before. Had he seen where he was going he’d likely have been nervous about the depths and the currents, but he’d managed fine, and so he quashed those concerns. His ability to withstand pressure and tidal drag was fine, at least so far, and he could worry about the bends some other time, test how deep he could go without getting sick, toss himself in the undertow deliberately to see how well he could fight it. So many new abilities to experiment with, so much to learn, but first he needed to know the basics.

_Where am I?_

_When am I?_

_Is the base on the peninsula still in use?_

Steve splashed ashore. Several rocks twisted, flopped over, and looked at him.

Not rocks. Seals.

_I wonder how seals taste? Bears like them, right?_

Considering his options for obtaining seal meat, Steve eyed the trees, black shadows on the southeastern horizon, and wondered if he could start a fire and get it hot enough to cook meat.

_One. Thing. At. A. Time._

He wasn’t _that_ hungry yet.

A bang-snap jerked his attention from the seals toward the building. By the light of day it was clearly a bunker, a squat concrete building a lighter gray than the rocks on which it stood. That such a heavy edifice was supported by what looked to be a haphazard jumble of stone was amazing to Steve. As he watched, the waves tore a rock from the shoreline; it tumbled into the surf with a splash.

_Surely the whole spit of land will be gone in a few more tides._

_No. Obviously not. That bunkers been there a long time. Rocks must be deposited as often as they are torn away. Or something. If I’m here long enough, maybe I can observe and figure it out._

The clatter sounded again. One of the seals near him rolled onto its back in the sun. Whatever the sound was, it was familiar enough to not bother the local animals. Bearing his trophies from the submarine, Steve moved cautiously along the shoreline toward the building. The noise repeated, and a flicker of movement caused Steve to make an abortive dodge toward non-existent cover.

_Foolish, stupid, self-destructive…if they hadn’t noticed me before, they certainly have now._

_Yeah, Rogers, there’s no chance they noticed the 20 tentacled man creeping along the ice. I’m the apotheosis of subtlety and stealth right now._

A doorway, black and gaping, opened into the tower. With another _bang-snap_ something brown flickered in and out of view. Eyes narrowed against the glare of the sun, Steve watched, ready to flee or attack, and it happened again.

The door.

The door had been left open and now swung open and shut with the breeze, slamming into the concrete doorframe each time.

If anyone was around, the door would not have been left open.

Steeling in preparation for the sight of more corpses – no matter how many men and women he’d seen die, the first glimpse of a mangled body never got easier – Steve approached the tower. The nearer he got, the larger it appeared; the nondescript landscape, painted harshly in shades of brown, gray, black, white, and navy blue, rendered distance and perspective hard to gauge, even to Steve’s experienced eye. Snow heaped atop it, molded into a malformed circular dome by the wind. The door snapped open once more when he finally stood before it; the building was squat, the jamb low enough that Steve had to bend his head so as not to whack himself on it.

 _No, Steve, you don’t have to_ bend _or_ squat _, you just have to let your tentacles drift closer to the ground. Gotta get used to this new body. Gotta practice. Gotta remember I’m not constrained by anything so human as_ legs _and_ joints below the waist _any longer._

The square made by the open door was so bright that it cast the rest of the bunker into gloom. The latch caught as Steve pushed the door shut behind himself, plunging the room into darkness, and though the wind made the door rattle in the frame it didn’t open again, offering further inconclusive evidence that the bunker was abandoned. Any passing human could have closed the door at any time, with the added incentive that though Steve couldn’t imagine a heat source, the absence of wind made the interior feel warm by contrast.

 _Just wait. Once I’m used to this as the new normal for the temperature, I’m sure it’ll feel cold again_.

Four thin lines of light glowed brilliant around the door, the only source of light in the room. Steve stepped away, closed his eyes, slowly counted one hundred, listening for any sounds. Wind made the door clatter softly, made a high-pitched whistling sound as it forced through the thin gaps that allowed in the light. Birds cawed and squawked, distant, muffled by the concrete. Something – maybe the seals? – made a howling, honking noise that sent a shiver down Steve’s spine. Dark, calm, quiet awareness settled over Steve like a blanket, soothing him. A layer of stress he’d hardly realized bore him down, a weight that had tensed him since he’d woken up encased in ice, eased. He shouldn’t get comfortable yet, he shouldn’t feel safe, but the longer he stood alone, out of sight, the more secure and confident he felt.

Steve opened his eyes.

Deep darkness rendered the contours of the room in shades of deep gray. Steve set down the things he’d been holding in a neat pile on the floor. There was no movement, no sign of current habitation. Motes of dust swirled – or maybe it was snow. A semi-circle of ice crusted the floor before the doorway, amplifying the scant light, another circumstantial piece of evidence in the growing list suggesting that the bunker was abandoned. In the dimness, Steve made out a neatly made cot, a cabinet, a desk that bore some kind of box atop it, and a long, narrow rectangle low against the floor. Everything was neat and orderly, as far as Steve could see – there was no mess, on detritus, no sign of animals taking sanctuary in the obvious protection the building afforded. That was a vote against abandonment; maybe the station was periodically occupied, a monitoring spot against the dangers of U-Boats and other enemy ships? With winter clogging the ocean with drifting floes, there was little to guard against now. Perhaps the station was only occupied in the summer?

_Too. Many. Questions._

What Steve needed was _light_ , and a chance to examine the room and the things he’d taken from the submarine. There must be some way that the inhabitant or inhabitants of this station _saw_. Setting down the things he’d salvaged from the U-Boat, Steve groped forward, got a hand on the door of the cabinet and opened it, the metal cool beneath his fingers. Within were black shadows, light glinting off the corners of a few boxes. Eyes useless, Steve let them close, took deep, calm breaths, and explored by feel.

_Maybe if I tried using my tentacles? Would taste be helpful now?_

His stomach rumbled.

Mystery items, soft and hard, square and circular, squishy or crinkly, passed beneath Steve’s fingers. His ability to identify things blind was not, apparently, so good as he’d thought. He had no idea what any of it was. With a sigh, he returned to the door to open it and let in what light he could.

At least now he was sure he was alone.

Eyes acclimated to the dimness, Steve noticed a lever beside the door.

_To pull the mystery lever or not to pull the mystery lever…_

_…this is a terrible idea…_

_…oh come on, this isn’t like some Dick Tracy comic where the villain booby traps his lair. It’s most likely a coastal defense bunker, built to prevent the Germans in that U-Boat from attacking the coast – or it’s German, and the U-Boat was part of the defense until it sank, and it’s here to prevent the Allies from attacking. Either way, they’re not going to sabotage it. There’d be no point._

Steve pulled the lever.

It gave easily beneath his hand, not well maintained but not creaky nor disused enough to resist his strength. There was a squeal of unoiled hinges and a strange patter as something fell to the floor from above, and then parallel lines of faint bluish light gapped overhead, widened, widened, until a shutter was completely open to reveal a skylight, the glass cracked as if something had punched it. Snow covered the window, too thick to be completely scoured away by the wind, and by the light Steve could see the small mound of loose flakes, chunks of ice, and bird droppings that had sifted down from above.

Light showed him what Steve had already seen: the bed, the cabinet filled with supplies that proved to be spare blankets and another first aid kit and a flashlight and a pair of rubber boots and a raincoat, the desk and…

 _…_ and the _radio_ atop it!

Steve was across the room, hands on the dials and switches, tentacles lacing about the table legs, before he thought through what he was doing. The opportunity to outreach to his allies, his friends, to let them know he was alive, to ask them for information, to merely hear Peggy’s voice again, was golden, nigh irresistible, but the dangers…he forced himself to set the mouthpiece down, forced himself to slide away. He had other ways to get information, other avenues to explore before he risked exposing himself by broadcasting on an open channel in the hopes that those he knew were listening and those who might hunt him weren’t.

A thin signal book, stamped CCCP in gold leaf on the front cover, sat beside the radio. A handful of other books, also in Russian, made a neat stack on one of the cabinet shelves.

Before Steve contacted anyone, he had a lot of reading to do, and he had no idea how much daylight he’d have.

Using two tentacles to spread the wet things from the U-Boat out so that they’d dry, Steve grabbed the signal book and lounged on the cot.

He had work to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts Sunday, June 11th, 2017.
> 
> eta: Okay, guys - if you're one of my regular readers you know I never, ever do this. In two *years* of writing fic I have NEVER said this...
> 
> But the lack of response I've been getting to this fic, especially in terms of comments, is *profoundly* disheartening, and the only explanation I can come up with for it is that people aren't enjoying it, except that the story has almost 60 subscribers - sixty people who liked it enough that they wanted to get e-mail notifications every time I post a new chapter *even though I end every chapter saying when I'm next posting* and I just...like, I'm getting fewer than 10 comments a chapter from ya'll, most are getting 5 or 6, and this latest chapter has now been up for 10 hours without getting a *single one*.
> 
> If you don't like it, that's fine, no one has to like my work, but if you are reading along and enjoying it would you please, please, *please* take even 30 seconds of your time and tell me so? One sentence. It can be a damn key smash for all I care, just to say you're here and something I wrote moved you enough to write "qewohiuafd". But getting so little feedback on this, when I've worked so, so hard on it, honestly just makes me want to throw up my hands and quit. Seriously, I'm on the verge of tears over this. Maybe I've been spoiled by the generally positive response to the fic I usually post - I know I'm new to the Stucky scene but I've been posting Destiel long fic for two years, generally to a positive reaction - and I'm sorry to explode my low self-esteem all over this end note but...
> 
> ...but if you're reading this story, and you like it...please comment.
> 
> (and to those who have commented: thank you. It's meant the world to me and your comments are about the only thing that have kept me adding new words to the manuscript. I'm working on replying to everyone as I have the time...)
> 
> I'm gonna shut up now.
> 
> eta2: thank you so so much to everyone who took the time to comment, or even just leave kudos. I woke up to a lot of love for this story and I'm feeling much better and more motivated today.
> 
> Fandom folks are the best folks, and don't let anyone EVER tell you otherwise!!!
> 
> <3


	6. Chapter 6

Darkness made a thick velvet blanket of quiet over the night.

Where Steve was had no name, but the latitude and longitude were 68.495, 51.758. The bunker was on the Russian coast, north of the Arctic circle, hundreds of miles from civilization, hundreds of miles from an ally he might actually trust. If Hydra had bases in the USSR, did they operate with Stalin’s sanction or had they infiltrated, as they’d infiltrated Hitler’s regime? There was no knowing, but he had no reason to think the outpost part of Hydra’s network, nor did he have reason to think it inhabited. Though it had been left neat and clean as if the resident had merely stepped out, no one had returned, and Steve could think of no place someone might have wandered off to. The area was far too inhospitable for that. The last entry in the bunker log was dated September 12th, 1945. According to the book, which Steve _wished_ he could trust doubt but had no actual cause to, Hitler had died on April 30 th, Germany had surrendered on May 8th, and after continued conflict with Japan culminating in the drop of a doomsday device on a civilian target, the Japanese had surrendered on September 2nd. Presumably, that had prompted the abandonment of this defensive position.

Steve had crashed into the Arctic ice on March 4th, 1945.

He had no idea what the current date was. It might be winter of 1945, or of 1946, or of 1947, or of—

_Stop._

Trembling, Steve put his hand on the receiver of the radio.

Steve’s hope that the waterlogged journal would provide him useful information proved futile. The book was destroyed, the weak fiber of the pages merged into one sodden mass. Someone with know-how and specialized skills might be able to dry and separate them, but Steve hadn’t the foggiest idea how to do so, and now it was a frozen brick, probably unsalvageable. The items wrapped so carefully and lovingly in waxed cloth proved equally useless, from the point of view of understanding what had befallen Steve and when, yet priceless, from the point of view of preserving his sanity. It contained pages of fine paper, kept miraculously dry, sketched with unknown portraits and cityscapes and landscapes and still lifes done by a skilled hand whose signature was illegible, and a small collection of art supplies. Though there were only a few blank sheets of paper, there was a box of pencils and charcoals, a couple ink pens, a worn bag smeared with rub off from the pastels it contained, and a slim container of water colors with a single brush. It wasn’t much, but it was _something_. The earliest works were dated June, 1940, the latest October, 1941; that and the meager other information Steve had salvaged from the personal effects on the U-Boat suggested that it had sank around then.

_Stop procrastinating, Steve._

Weeks had passed since Steve had taken up residence in his new home. He’d primarily spent them training, honing his skills with his limbs, testing his swimming abilities, exploring his surroundings as far down and up the coast as he could. He’d found several more lookout positions, all abandoned, but nothing more of use. He’d broken through the sealed bulkheads of the U-Boat and found them flooded, water corrupted by decaying corpses, and anything of value long since destroyed. He’d looked at every book he could find, even paged through a copy of Mein Kampf that disintegrated before he could finish searching it for notes.

His surroundings had yielded all the usable information he could hope to find without taking a risk.

_What’s the worst that could happen?_

Some risks were bigger than others. He could try to find the Hydra base, follow a boat if he found one, seek out native peoples or a local city by stabbing out over the countryside at random since he didn’t have a map. He could take to the water and swim and swim along the coast until he found something useful, but doing so would likely necessitate permanently abandoning Carlos and the other Hydra prisoners to their fate.

Or he could try the radio.

 _You...no,_ I _really don’t want to think about the answer to that question._

By the faint light of the flashlight, Steve lifted the receiver. Dull static filtered into the room. He’d noted earlier what frequency the radio was set to, suspecting it had been left on that frequency by the Russians; knowing what setting they used might prove useful in the future. For now, though, he had to see to himself. Of his many bad options, this was the best. Nothing he’d learned could tell him what unknown risks he incurred by reaching out to his allies, but nothing suggested he’d be in exceptional danger doing so. The perils of using a radio were as they always had been, of interception, of codes being interpreted, of enemies tracking signals, and on and on, but Steve had been part of an elite squad, and they had contingencies in place for if they were separated.

Steve had _no idea_ if anyone was heeding those procedures now that the war was over – _if_ the war was over – no idea what had happened to the Howling Commandos, if the SSR still existed, if anyone he knew was still in uniform. He had no idea if the radio wavelength they were to use in case of emergencies was still being monitored.

He had _exactly one_ way to find out.

_Chance nothing, win nothing..._

He tuned the dial to 32.25 kilohertz. At such a low setting, the waves couldn’t transmit much _data_ but they could cover vast distances without needing a relay tower or any signal boost. There was no static, no crackle, no hum, not a whisper on the frequency. No one in range – about a thousand miles, give or take – was transmitting.

Steve set the receiver on the table, took up the two metal rods he’d found in a portable cot kit stored in the low chest, and clanged them together once, twice, three times. He counted 20 seconds off, then did so again.

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

If anyone received the message, they would count ten from the last clang and reply with two staccato clangs and a single drawn out toll, on the same radio frequency.

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

No answer came.

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

Steve repeated the signal for hours, until his hands ached, until the numbers became meaningless abstractions in his head, until his straining ears manufactured the ghost of a reply that never actually came.

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

_1...2...3..._

_...18...19...20..._

_Clang, clang, clang._

Finally, as dawn painted the room gray anew, Steve put the receiver up with a sigh. He was exhausted, his skin felt stretched, and he was hungry. There wasn’t a morsel of food in the bunker. Seal tasted okay but the bastards were surprisingly difficult to catch, and Steve had a lot more practice to do before he’d be good enough at throwing his axe for it to be an effective long-range tool for downing the speedy sea mammals.

And he had no source of heat.

Raw seal.

He had to be _damn_ hungry before he could make himself eat the bloody strips of meat.

He needed to immerse himself in water, needed to sleep, needed to find something else to eat...

... _you could try the algae..._

_...in your dreams, Rogers..._

...and then he’d return to the radio and try again.

* * *

 _“Baby, you are_ so _damn_ good _for me.” Bucky sighed, slid his hands up Steve’s sides, slid his chest over Steve’s back, slid his cock inside Steve’s ass. Steve bit his lip against a pained noise; he didn’t mind the twinges that came from having Bucky big and thick inside him – Steve_ loved _the flickers of pain mingled with the pleasure – but Bucky hated hurting Steve._

Haven’t you been hurt enough?

 _Tangling his fingers in the bedspread, Steve relaxed into the uncomfortable old mattress, springs digging into his ribs, and gasped every time Bucky’s hips slammed into his ass. The walls were paper thin, the neighbors nosy and already suspicious, and Steve_ could not _risk being found out for his predilections. Bucky was safe. Bucky was a man._

_Steve was the one allowing himself to be treated like a woman, and—_

_“Hey, what’s wrong?” Bucky stopped, deep within him, and Steve bit a sob into the blanket, wiped his tears against the fabric. “Babe –_ Steve _– talk to me, please.”_

_Shaking his head, Steve slid down the bed, hitched his hips up in invitation. “Do it, Buck. Please. I want you to.”_

_“Steve...hell, Steve, look at me.”_

_Steve twisted his head around so he could see Bucky from the corner of one eye. A spring dug into his belly, and Bucky’s weight dug into his spine. Bucky – God, the most beautiful man Steve had ever met, the most beautiful man, inside and out, in this whole forsaken hell heap of a city – looked down at him, a twinkle in his eye, a smile on his lips._

_“This is for you, buddy. If you don’t want this, we don’t have to – we_ never _have to – and what did I tell you?”_

_Steve shook his head again._

_“Steve –_ what did I tell you _?”_

_“I’m not a substitute,” Steve whispered._

_It had only been a few months since his mother died, only been a few months since Bucky_ insisted _on spending a few nights over because Steve was pathetic and hadn’t been able to hide the weight he’d lost, hadn’t been able to hide his loneliness, hadn’t been able to hide the bruises and the scrapes from the fights he’d sought out as a coping mechanism. It had only been a few months since, in a fit of self-destructive anger, Steve told Bucky the truth, that it was all Steve could do to not kiss Bucky every damn time he said something sweet, and if Bucky was disgusted by that – and Steve had been so. utterly. sure. that Bucky would be disgusted by that – then Bucky should get out of the apartment, get off the block, get out of Brooklyn and get out of Steve’s life because Steve couldn’t bear the disappointment and the pain another damn day._

_Bucky had kissed him._

_They had a_ lot _to talk about._

_God, this felt even better than Steve had dreamed._

_“Steve, babe, you are not a substitute,” Bucky whispered, lifting his hips, settling them back down gently. Steve squirmed and sighed happily. They’d only tried this a handful of times and it was better, always better than the time before. “Fuck...I’ve...been in love with you...since the day...I met you...” Every few words, Bucky thrust, soft, kind, emphatic enough to knock the mattress against the wall, tender enough that every movement and touch was a caress._

_“Liar,” Steve muttered._

_“Not a lie,” Bucky insisted, continuing the same pace. Steve’s cock rubbed against the rough-woven blanket, pleasure driving away his doubts and his fears, driving away everything but the mounting bliss. “Never...lie to you...‘cept for your own good...”_

_“Buck...”_

_“Like...stop you...pickin’ a fight...with a dudes who’ll...kick your ass? That...then...I’ll lie...your ass is mine, Rogers...”_

_“Buck!”_

_“This?” Buck slapped Steve’s side, slapped his thighs into Steve’s butt. Bliss burned through Steve. “Mine. All this, mine. Fuck...”_

_“Love you, Buck!”_

_“I know...you crazy idiot, I know you do, I know, I know, I...”_

_Bucky’s fingers dug into Steve’s shoulders, lanced pain down his torso in perfect, surreal counterpoint to the ecstasy trailing up him, and Steve came with a groan, grinding up into Bucky’s strokes, grinding down into the mattress._

Something wet and hot coated his tentacle.

_Buck...no, Buck, don’t go..._

Steve blinked awake.

He was alone in the bunker, daylight streaming through the skylight. He’d been at his new home a month, give or take – sometimes counting was tough – and when the temperature had miraculously risen above freezing one day, he’d gone on the roof and cleared the snow off. It’d likely snow again any day, but by Steve’s count it wasn’t deep winter yet. There were still six hours of daylight or so, and a handy chart in one of the books on the shelves told him that made the date right around November 1st. He still wasn’t sure what year it was but he was optimistic that it was still 1945. He and Carlos had managed to keep _some_ track of days during their captivity, and if they each surely missed days while they were sedated and tortured, by their count it had been four months.

Carlos hadn’t been sure what year it was, either. Unless Steve had badly misunderstood their broken conversation, a combination of English and Spanish and words and numbers traced on the floor, Carlos had been captured in 1942.

Carlos hadn’t realized it wasn’t _still_ 1942.

_God, it could be 1950 for all I know._

_Bucky might have been dead for five years._

_I miss him so damn much_.

With a groan, Steve tried to rise, but all he managed was to flop his tentacles against the chair and the desk. He’d fallen asleep sitting at the radio. How had he even _managed_ that? The afterglow of his wet dream fading, he felt gross, lonely, abandoned though he knew that no one had _intentionally_ left him to his fate. If Dugan or Morita or Sawyer or any of the Commandos had known Steve was alive, if Stark had known Steve was alive, if Peggy had known Steve was alive, they would have hunted him to the ends of the earth.

If any of them believed Steve still alive, they’d have listened to the radio channel. They’d have responded to him by now.

That none of them had was telling.

His tentacle slid through hot goo.

_Huh?_

There was a pool of liquid on the floor, thick, goopy, dark. Puzzled, Steve frowned. That time at Castle Clinton, hadn’t the informational sign mentioned that octopi made ink?

Had _Steve_ made _ink_?

A shiver of memory, of imagined sensation, trailed up Steve’s spine. There was a soft squirt and the pool beneath him grew.

Not ink.

Flailing with his hands, Steve knocked his other tentacles aside – he couldn’t be bothered to focus on moving them, not when he might...when maybe he could... – and took up the one that had released the fluid. It looked different than it had before, no longer deep black with a gray underside adorned with twin rows of suckers, no longer ending in a thin, tapering point. The flesh transitioned to pink, the tip was bulbous, and...

Hardly daring to hope, Steve gave the end of the tentacle a stroke. Pleasure – over-stimulation, incandescent and all-devouring – flared so brilliantly across his vision that he saw blobby after-images scattered across the room every time he blinked.

 _Oh, man, I am never saying_ anything _bad about my ability to heal ever again._

_Thank you, God, the universe, whatever merciful being exists, for giving me a penis again._

Another tremor quaked him, another spurt of what he supposed was his new version of semen made slight ripples through the puddle, and Steve nearly slid onto the floor.

The squirt had come from a _different_ tentacle.

Dragging himself into the center of the pool of light cast down from the skylight, Steve arrayed the ends of his tentacles before him. Slimy come made dark tracks on the concrete, the edges of the puddle already forming tiny ice crystals that broke loose and floated across the surface. Six of his tentacles were now brilliant pink and bulbous.

 _Six_ of Steve’s tentacles were _dicks_.

_I don’t know if I should laugh or cry._

A jumble of memories came to him, of his times with Bucky and Peggy after he took the serum, of how it had felt to have Bucky beneath him for the first time, of the challenges of satisfying three people, all of whom liked to have something _inside_ them, when they only had two men with penises and no ability to hide any sexual aids amidst their army gear.

Steve now had _six_ dicks to go around.

 _And_ no anus of his own.

If he ever got home, if he ever reunited with Peggy, if she or anyone else ever had interest in making love to him again given how he’d changed, at least he’d never have a repeat of the _not enough dicks_ problem…

How might it _feel_ to have multiple penises being stimulated simultaneously? The serum had already done wonders for Steve’s ability to keep going and for his refractory period. What might his new limbs, and the resulting adaptations the serum had made to his biology, do to further that?

Steve really, _really_ hoped he’d have the chance to find out.

But for now…

Laundry was out of the question, and Steve didn’t want to soil the only two blankets he had cleaning up his mess, so he grabbed the broom he’d found tucked beside the cabinet and swept his release across the floor and out the door. Come threaded through the cracked ice and snow, dark liquid diffusing to make fascinating, beautiful patterns. A thin film remained on the floor, and Steve mused about how incredibly, fantastically _weird_ his life had become, and murmured thanks to whichever neatnik former inhabitant of the bunker had insisted that a broom be among the minimal supplies provided. Humming under his breath to fill the cavernous silence, he considered his plans for the day. He’d not meant to fall asleep during his overnight vigil by the radio, but the damage couldn’t be undone now. He’d not tried making signals during the day time. He could only guess the time difference between his location and any place where one of his allies might be – Scandinavia or the UK or France or…he shook the thought away, his tentacles flapped around him, and he hummed louder.

 _Down beat_.

There was no point in worrying.

_Down beat._

Steve was alive and, if not safe, at least relatively secure through the winter.

_Down beat._

Maybe he’d finally get to collect that dance with Peggy.

_Down beat._

He had so much to learn about his new body.

_Down beat._

He’d never gotten the hang of dancing in his old body, no matter how often Bucky laughingly pointed out that it was almost _exactly_ the same as fighting except that Steve was supposed to stop _before_ he punched Bucky in the jaw.

_Down beat._

But hey, new limbs, new him, right?

 _Down beat_.

And—

Wait.

Down beat.

The almost metronomic, steady pulse, the tempo of which he matched with his humming, matched with the swaying of his hips, _wasn’t in Steve’s head._

 _Down beat_.

He’d left the radio receiver sitting on the desk.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten…_

Down beat. Steve scrambled back to the desk, letting the broom fall with a clatter.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine ten…_

Down beat.

_One…two…think, Steve, whose call sign is this? Who is contact me?...nine…ten…_

Down beat.

Every member of the Howling Commandos had their own signal, their own reply. Steve had sent out the universal _SOS_ signal, and hadn’t gotten the standard response, but this – this was someone’s personal sign.

Down beat.

They were trying to let Steve know they’d received his signal, probably wondering who the heck had transmitted, since they likely thought Steve dead.

Down beat.

Falsworth. Falsworth’s signal was ten seconds of silence followed by a single note like a bass drum.

Down beat.

And Steve’s was…

_One, two, three, four, five…_

_Clap, clap._

_…six, seven, eight, nine, ten…_

Down beat.

_One, two, three, four, five…_

_Clap, clap._

_…six, seven, eight, nine, ten…_

Down beat.

Ten repeats to confirm contact, to confirm intentionality. Heart racing, Steve continued to count, continued the snap-beat of his claps, and prayed – _prayed_ , as he hadn’t once since his mother was dying – that this wasn’t a hoax, or an accident, or…

_…six, seven, eight, nine, ten…_

Down beat, down beat, down beat.

 _Message received_.

Clap, Clap, Steve replied.

_And understood._

The radio went dead.

Crumpling into the chair, Steve curled his arms under his head and wept with relief.

* * *

Beep...

_One._

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep, beep...

_One._

Beep, beep, beep...

_One, two, th—_

Beep, beep...

Beep, beep, beep, beep, beep.

_One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten._

Taking up his metal rods, Steve clanged them twice: please repeat to confirm.

The sequence repeated identically, Steve tracing over the numbers he’d written on the corner of the signal log book. He clanged his metal rods once – received, thank you – and set the headset down. Turning the dial to adjust the receiver frequency, he entered the numbers he’d been sent: 163.25 kHz. The radio in the defensive bunker was military grade and had an impressively wide range of frequencies, but there was no chance his contact meant megahertz, no signal in that wavelength range could cover the distances involved.

Steve wasn’t even sure that a kilohertz signal would travel far enough.

Soft static, picking up background transmissions and – or so Steve had been told – radio signals from beyond the planet, spoke to Steve’s fears. Falsworth had confirmed his identity again before sending the numbers, but…

What if Falsworth had also been captured, or one of the other Commandos had been? What if their code had been cracked? What if Steve himself had given up the information while being tortured and he didn’t even remember doing so? He could distinctly remember a moment in the midst of agony where something in him _snapped_ and he would have told Hydra _anything_ to get them to stop. He didn’t remember them asking him questions but, then, he didn’t technically remember more than the vaguest details of them _sewing two-point-five octopi to his waist_ , so Steve wasn’t about to credit his memory as infallible.

What if—?

“ _Steve_?” A woman’s voice shrieked through the equipment loudly enough that feedback squealed and hurt Steve’s ears.

Peggy’s voice.

God, the only thing Steve could think of that could possibly sound more beautiful to his ears – feedback squeals and all – would be Bucky’s voice.

 _But I’ll never hear that again_.

“Heya, Peggy,” he said, swallowing an unwelcome thickness in his throat. Yesterday’s meltdown over Falsworth contacting him notwithstanding, Steve Rogers _did not_ cry, and he wasn’t about to start now and risk wasting the few precious minutes of radio contact he might have.

“You...I...” Even through the poor transmission, Peggy’s voice was thick with emotion. Steve could imagine her shaking her head, coiffed curls loose over her shoulders. “Business. This is...I hate to ask this, but I need proof. That you’re…you.”

“Of course,” Steve said, smiling. All business, yet all heart. Best dame he’d ever had.

 _Only_ dame he’d ever had, but hey, that didn’t cheapen her one bit.

“I don’t trust our call signs, it’s been too long. Think fast, Rogers – something only I would know.”

“Pegs, I’m sorry I missed our date on March 10th,” Steve replied immediately. No one had overheard their last conversation. No one else could possibly know. He’d anticipated her demanding a confidence as proof, and this was the best he had. “Honestly, I got no clue where I was but it wasn’t anywhere near the Stork Club.”

“Eight o’clock, on the dot,” she whispered. “It really is...you’re late, Steve. Very, very late.”

“Uh...do you think you could maybe tell me _how_ late? Most recent information I’ve got says September 12 th...” He hesitated, lest his worse fears be confirmed, then added, “1945.”

“It’s November 4th,” she replied crisply. “You’ve been missing for nine months. There will be questions, of course, but first, where are you?”

“The Soviet Union.”

“Of course,” she said with a resigned sigh. “You couldn’t have been in...Greenland, or anywhere near where you crashed, that would be _far_ too easy. It will take negotiations, but SSR _might_ be able to convince Stalin to retrieve you, and—”

“Don’t waste the goodwill,” Steve interrupted.

He wasn’t going home yet.

He’d _sworn_ he’d rescue Carlos and the other prisoners.

“But—”

“No, not on me, Peggy. I’m not worth it. There are bigger fish to fry. Schmidt wasn’t all of Hydra, and his headquarters wasn’t the last Hydra base.”

“Steve—”

“Hydra dug me out of the ice, brought me to Siberia, tortured me, are probably after me now, but none of that matters – they’ve got _dozens_ of other prisoners just in the facility where I was held, and who knows how many other fortresses they’ve got. I can’t leave, Peggy.”

“That’s insane. You’ve been through a severe trauma. I don’t know how you ended up in _Siberia_ , but—”

“Peggy. _Trust me_.”

“But we...we’ve seen no _evidence_ that Hydra exists. The war is over, they’ve got no soldiers left, and their scientists and intellectuals largely defected. Many are now part of the SSR, for goodness sake, and—”

“And shouldn’t that _terrify_ you? Makes it sound less like a defeat and more like a change in strategy. What you can’t beat from the outside, infiltrate and erode from the inside.”

There were so many reasons, so many incredibly good reasons, for Peggy to doubt him. Heck, depressingly often Steve doubted himself. But this was is his only shot, his only lifeline. Hydra still existed, and to his dying breath Steve would dedicate himself to destroying them and annihilating everything they believed in. He’d stay in the USSR and fight alone if he had to, but his options would be severely limited without back up or support.

“Even if that’s true, we can’t...we can’t _invade_ the USSR,” Peggy continued. The helpless catch in her voice hurt.

Steve could survive underwater, survive in sub-zero temperatures. Carlos and the other prisoners of war most certainly could _not_. If he freed them and had no one to retrieve them and take them to safer shores....

“It was all Roosevelt and Churchill could do to reach consensus at Yalta, and Stalin is desperate for any sign that we’re violating our word,” said Peggy. “If we breach the bargain first, he’s free to act as he will. We can’t…”

…Steve _had_ to convince Peggy.

“Look, talk to Roosevelt! He backed the SSR, and he sees me an asset – I’ll pass any test you or he or Stark or Philips or anyone put to me, Pegs, but this is too important to let lie,” insisted Steve. “If we piss of Stalin, well, maybe Stalin _needs_ pissing off.”

“Steve, I…I can’t just _talk_ to…Christ, you missed so much, do you even know about…he’s dead, Steve.”

“Stalin’s dead?” Steve asked, shocked.

“No, no – Roosevelt’s dead,” Peggy said. Now she sounded bitter, and _exhausted_. The distance between them had never seemed greater. “He died in April. Truman’s president of the United States now. You’ve missed so much. The war is over, and the troops are home, and if I suggest anything that _might_ lead to a fight, I’ll be laughed out of what little clout I have left. No one has time for a _woman_ in a uniform now that the _men_ are back.”

“Peggy, did they…?” Steve cut off the question. He didn’t think she’d appreciate being asked if she’d been kicked out of the SSR, especially since her words already strongly implied that the answer was yes. Besides, there were more important questions than prying into Peggy’s heart ache. He could guess how hard the past few days must have been for her, since Falsworth made contact. _Focus on the task at hand, Steve. Focus on what matters._

_But God it breaks my heart that Peggy’s feelings aren’t what matter right now._

“Who knows about this conversation?” Steve asked reluctantly.

“Most of the Commandos retired to civilian life, though they’re on call if needed,” Peggy said. Yeah, that was fatigue, crushingly heavy, deadening her lush voice, flattening her to professionalism. “Only Dugan is actively working with the SSR. Officially, you’re dead, Steve. We... _I_...there was a funeral, they buried your empty casket between your mother’s grave and a second empty casket for Buc…for _Barnes…_ and now...” She choked up, swallowed back grief, and tried again. “There was…after your plane went down and the wreckage couldn’t be found there was an…an…an _argument_. Stark wanted to continue looking for you, but he’d already retrieved the Tesseract—”

“They found it?”

“—and getting it from the ocean floor cost a _fortune_ ,” Peggy pressed on. “With the war on its last legs, you weren’t considered a valuable enough _asset_ during peace time to continue the search, especially since you were an asset to no one if you were dead, and _obviously_ you _must_ be dead. Stark said he didn’t care about the money, he’d look ‘til it drove him bankrupt, but Philips and the others quashed his plans – wouldn’t give him the clearances he needed to get the planes off the ground to scour the ice.”

“So then why...?”

“Falsworth, obviously,” she said. “Publicly, Falsworth and Stark had a huge falling out over searching for you, Falsworth saying that Stark should find a way and ‘refusing to listen to reason.’ Privately, they agreed that Falsworth would keep looking. Stark is an international figure. People watch him and care how he spends his money, but no one would look twice at what James Montgomery Falsworth, late of the 3rd Independent Parachute Brigade, late of the Howling Commandos, does. Most of the world wants to ignore the veterans, just like they’d rather forget the war. Some things are too awful to dwell on, I suppose. So Stark held a ceremony for all the Commandos, gave them sizable pensions as thanks for their service, brought in all the newsreels, pinned medals to their chest while Truman looked on and nodded support, and the only reason for any of it was so he could funnel Falsworth money to continue the search for you without drawing attention.

“The others figured it out, of course – it was never supposed to be a secret from _them_ , just from the public and our respective governments. They’ve helped too, even Dugan, though he’s trying to keep in Philips’ good graces. All of us check the radios from time to time, figuring that if somehow you survived, you’d try to signal, but we all thought that was futile. We figured Morita and Gabe and their apparently random poking around Greenland were more likely to succeed.”

“So that’s what’s been going on...”

“Not even a fraction of it,” Peggy said with a sigh.

“What have _you_ been doing?” Steve asked.

“God, too much to list,” she sighed again. “Steve, I...I might have enough pull to get you out of there, _maybe_ , but more than that...”

“I told you, I’m not leaving,” Steve said firmly.

“If I didn’t know the serum made you _disgustingly_ perfect I’d think your hearing’s impaired,” said Peggy.

“Well, this _is_ a mediocre connection...”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

“The more you tell me, the more certain I am,” continued Steve. “I’m where I want to be, where I’m needed most. If the SSR has sidelined you, if you can’t act in any official capacity, fine. You don’t need to act. I’m _dead_ , so if I take out the Hydra base where I was held, even if they exist with Stalin’s permission, the Allies are _obviously_ blameless. This is the opportunity of a lifetime.” He paused, awaiting her reply, but she said nothing. “Come on, Peggy, work with me here.”

“I won’t… _none_ of us will be able to help you,” she finally said. “I wish...when Falsworth said he found your signal, I hoped...I mean, I didn’t _dare_ hope, but I hoped...” She took a deep breath and huffed it out. “I’ve missed you.”

“Miss you too, Pegs, you gotta know that, but you also know – this is the right thing for me to do,” said Steve.

“Of course it is.” Peggy’s voice was thick with resignation. “Dammit, you’re _insufferable_ , do you know that?”

“I’ve been informed of that by reliable sources more than once, yes,” said Steve, smiling. Bantering with her almost felt _normal_ , until he remembered that literally nothing about himself or his life was normal, nor was it likely to ever be again. “So, if I free the prisoners...?”

There was another pause.

“I’ll see what I can do.”

“That’s all I ask,” said Steve. “I’ll try to come up with a way to get them out of here that doesn’t involve you, but my resources are limited, to say the least. Thanks, Pegs.”

“Be careful, Steve. You _still_ owe me a date.”

“Rain check on that, ‘kay?”

“You sure know how to keep a gi...a _woman_ waiting,” she laughed. “I’ll check in same time tomorrow?”

“Sounds good.”

Setting the receiver down, Steve leaned back in his chair and let the silence ring loud.

God, in so many ways, knowing isolated bits and pieces of what had happened was so much _worse_ than knowing nothing. He had so many questions, every reveal spawning more.

But the war was over.

The soldiers were home.

It sounded like all of the Commandos had survived, after Bucky and Steve went down.

Peggy was alive.

The rest was just details, right?

_Crap, I forgot to tell her I can’t dance. I mean, she knows I can’t dance, but...legs._

_She doesn’t know about the tentacles._

_Shit._

_...maybe that’s for the better._

If Steve was honest with himself, even best case scenario, his chances of surviving his self-assigned mission and getting home were slim-to-none.

The less Peggy knew about what he was doing and how he was doing it, the better her plausible deniability.

_Yeah, keep telling yourself that’s the only reasons to keep your new, laudable condition from her._

_No,_ Rogers _, it makes sense. If anyone asks if she knows anyone who could, say, scale a sheer wall naked in the dead of winter, her only possible answer will be_ no _, she doesn’t know anyone like that. The Steve Rogers she knew would have died attempting to do that._

 _Whereas, the Steve Rogers I am_ now _has a secret Hydra R &D facility to ransack and prisoners of war to free._

_Time to get serious..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts Tuesday, June 13th, 2017


	7. Chapter 7

_I can’t believe I didn’t think of this sooner_.

Finding Hydra’s base proved far easier than Steve had anticipated.

_Sometimes, not the brightest bulb in the socket, Steve…_

All he’d had to do was retrace his journey back to where he’d escaped Hydra’s train, and follow the tracks to their origin.

_Man, being out of water is uncomfortable…_

Adjusting the focus on the binoculars he’d brought from his new home, Steve stared at the Hydra facility, or what he believed to be the Hydra facility. He had no proof that this was the base where he’d been held, except that his instincts screamed that this was the place and the train tracks ran directly inside.

 _What are the chances something of this magnitude is going on within the USSR and Stalin_ doesn’t _know?_

_Practically nil._

_God, I’m in so much trouble._

_But…_

_Even if I only overthrow one base. Even if I only free a single prisoner. Even if I fail, I can force Hydra into the open, force them into the public eye, force Stalin to acknowledge Hydra’s presence and maybe disavow them. I can play a critical role in fighting this evil. Peggy knows the truth, and has my back, and Falsworth, and I bet they’ll tell Stark, and what better allies could I have than Peggy, Stark, and the Commandos?_

_So help me, brain, if you say…_

_Bucky?_

_…I’ll sigh at the futility of it all. What else can I do? What else can I say to that?_

_Bucky is dead._

_Thank you, Captain Obvious._

Nothing moved about the Hydra base. Nothing _had_ moved since Steve had arrived hours ago. The day was cold, growing colder now that the sun had sunk beneath the horizon. The complex looked small, a huge flat square with a roof piled high with snow, though Steve knew from his time there that the ceiling was several stories high. The ground around the facility was cleared for maybe a quarter mile, fenced in, with four guard outposts situated at the four corners of the fence. Floodlights illuminated the snow, reflecting to give light near as bright as day. The first flakes of a new storm fell, and Steve wished he had time to observe for several days, learn the rhythms of the place, see how shipments arrived, monitor the guard rotations that came and went from the surveillance towers.

It had taken Steve all day to get to his present location, about a half-mile out atop a tree.

His body ached from exposure to the crisp air, his skin tight and dry – even the skin that _didn’t_ sheath tentacles – and his lungs strained against air that seemed to thin.

He’d felt that strain before, in the Alps.

He wasn’t at altitude right now.

The problem was he wasn’t breathing water.

_Alright, if careful deliberation isn’t an option, then…_

Most of the distance between him and the base was cleared, and while he couldn’t see for certain, he assumed the guard towers were manned. Though, in winter, in the cold, they might not be? Steve wasn’t sure how they’d get heat. If he had more time…no. He didn’t have more time. He had to assume that the posts were soldiered and armed, and consider himself lucky if that assumption proved false.

As the snow fell thicker, the dark line of the train tracks faded, whited out and covered. The right-of-way passed beneath a fence gate which, from what Steve could tell, probably couldn’t be opened with the amount of snow currently on the ground. There were no other gates, and the tracks disappeared under an enormous set of double doors, currently closed, that looked to Steve as though they’d allow an entire train into the complex. From his vantage point he could see several doors – tiny-looking, though surely made to the height of a person. Whatever supplies they needed must already be within, for the tracks would be blocked before the winter even truly began. Any roads were already buried, and Steve had seen no signs of civilization near the base. There was no way that anything bigger than a sled could cross the arctic expanses to bring essential supplies.

Unless they’d abandoned the facility, either for the season or permanently, and that was why Steve had been moved.

No. While that was possible, it was unlikely. The set up that Steve had caught glimpses of didn’t look temporary. The equipment used to modify him was advanced, and likely large, and the train that had carried Steve away had only had the engine and the tank – there’d been no additional cars to haul away expensive materials. The tracks, as he’d followed them south and west to the base, were scattered with snow; a large tree branch had covered them in pine needles at one point. He doubted anyone had been down the tracks since Steve’s escape.

Food could be stored for the winter. Fuel and generators could provide power, light, and heat. The compound was big enough to serve as prison and laboratory and warehouse.

But there were at least 25 soldiers and scientists stationed there – Steve had, with pencil in hand, sketched every face he could remember to help him count, recalled every voice he had heard – and at least a dozen prisoners. Forty or fifty people…

How did the base get water?

Theoretically, it was possible, in the short summer thaw, to put in piping from somewhere nearby, but it would be impractical.  Peggy had told Steve that the Pechora River flowed near his location, and from what Steve had seen on reconnaissance, the train tracks mirrored the river’s course. The water was invisible, buried beneath ice and snow, but the half-mile wide bare area amidst the dense forest was unmistakable. The base was maybe two miles from the river. Determined Hydra members, especially with support from Stalin, could have built something to move water that far, assuming the ground _ever_ thawed enough for pipes to be buried, but there was nothing to keep the water from freezing over the winter.

The base must be abandoned when the temperatures dipped below zero, as they were already starting to nightly.

The base must have a more reliable source of water.

_There are advantages to such profound isolation but there are also disadvantages. There must be a reason they chose this location for their secret testing facility…surely Stalin had better real estate to offer than the depths of Siberia…Hydra seemed partial to mountains, the Urals must be full of uninhabited locations that would have worked just as well…_

_So why here?_

The forest cut off as if striking an invisible wall beyond which seeds couldn’t pass, approximately 500 yards beyond the fence. Spruce and winter-bare deciduous trees mixed to make dense woods, but not so dense that Steve had been able to approach the complex by daylight. Climbing had proved as easy as he’d hoped now that he’d had time to hone his control, but he was still enormous and heavy, shaking the trunk and branches of even the trees sturdy enough to support him. No one could mistake him for anything that _belonged_ in Siberia. In his time in the wild, Steve had only seen birds and the occasional mammal – seals, rabbits, and a silhouette in the distance standing on a floating island of ice that he’d thought was a bear – but nothing Steve’s size spent time up the local trees.

So Steve waited.

Waiting patiently, still, Steve observed as the night grew darker. There was a sliver of moon up, low on the horizon, but the faint shadows it cast were washed out by the flood lights mounted at the four corners of the square fence. Ostensibly, Steve supposed those were in place to prevent anyone sneaking up on the fence, and maybe to scare away any wildlife that came close, but in practice they seemed a terrible idea. They ruined any hope of getting accustomed to seeing in the dark. The brightness rendered the forest in a murk of unfathomable pitch blackness in which anything might lurk.

Tonight, Steve lurked, and Hydra agents beware.

_That’s the dumbest thing you’ve thought in days – weeks._

Steve had more important things to do than think of lame, Spirit-esque slogans.

Keeping to the trees on the assumption that sucker-shaped tracks would be a dead giveaway – unless, inconceivably, Hydra had _multiple_ half-kraken science projects on the prowl – heck, _one_ half-kraken science project was inconceivable, so why not multiple? – Steve circled the complex once, twice. There were a few places where there were cuts through the trees; the widest was the train tracks. At a second place, snow piled into wide drifts over a gap that drove like a wedge of glistening white maybe fifty feet into the perfectly trim, even tree line before being swamped with trees. At another spot, a huge mound of snow with a few branches sticking out at odd angles suggested a buried thicket, and a fourth place formed a perfectly round divot in the clearing and presumably had been put there intentionally, though Steve could see no reason why.

None looked like a hidden stream or river that might be supplying the base.

_Maybe they gather snow and melt it._

_Melting snow in that quantity through all the months of winter would consume an astronomical amount of fuel. Could they be using sunlight for that purpose? Would that even work? Why am I determined to believe they haven’t left for the winter? Maybe I’m barking up the wrong tree._

_No, Steve, dogs bark and they don’t climb trees. I’m an octo-man – no, what’s the prefix that means 20? – I’m a dodeca-man, and I_ do _climb trees. Haven’t shown any signs of barking yet…_

_…wait for it…_

Snowflakes made the world oddly two-dimensional, flattening distance, obscuring distant objects. The bunker was a dark blob in the distance, the fence invisible. Trees that seemed far loomed suddenly close. If he didn’t make a decision soon, the weather and exposure to the air and cold would make Steve’s decision for him and he’d be forced to retreat to more watery climes and return another day.

The only cleared spot that might hide a waterway was the narrow snow-covered gap that extended back into the woods before disappearing.

_Alright…time to gamble…worst that happens is I die…again…_

Brachiating from tree to tree, Steve circled the clearing back to the potential inlet. His belongings were in an awkward sack strapped to his back; he stowed the binoculars, triple-checked the ropes binding his things to him, and took a deep breath.

_Stop procrastinating._

Steve gathered his tentacles beneath him, leapt into the air, and slammed to the ground with all his weight behind one fist. Snow powdered, clouded, cascaded around him as he drove powerful through several feet of it, and his knuckles struck ice. For a moment, it seemed he’d descend no farther, but then a resounding _crack_ filled the night as if the frigid, flake-filled air had shattered. Jagged shards of ice tore at Steve’s arms as he descended deeper, deeper. Snow covered his gills, thickened the air, made breathing hard, and then without even a splash of warning he was in water – shockingly deep water, unfrozen, warm in comparison to the air outside – and he could breathe. Strong currents pulled him deeper, carried him toward the Hydra base, and Steve spared a moment to be utterly shocked that his outlandish theory had actually proved correct.

_If luck is an expendable commodity than I’ve definitely used all of it for the day…_

_…unless this doesn’t work_.

Steve couldn’t have been in the water for longer that moments when he slammed into something hard, water rebounding and eddying around him. Eyes open or shut, there wasn’t a glimmer of light, but his shoulder ground against metal, his hands aching with cold as they grasped for purchase. Up and down had become meaningless in the tumble of the waterway, so Steve put a hand to the wall, picked a direction, and explored. There was an unmistakable curve. Forming a halo of touch around himself with his tentacles, Steve continued until he struck an obstacle – the rough, even striations of poured concrete – and, hoping like hell that was the floor of whatever contained him, he bunched his tentacles and pushed off hard, a hand stretched above him to catch him lest there was a barrier overhead.

With a splash, Steve broke water, hand reaching, reaching, and catching in a crisscross of metal bars.

_How the hell is breaking in this easy?_

_Simple: it’s Siberia in winter. Even in summer that water is likely cold enough to kill, and that inlet is narrow enough that no one could enter it unseen anyway. Only someone with super powers could do as I’ve done, and there are only a handful of super humans in the world._

_Unfortunately for Hydra, I’m one of them. What an act of hubris, to bring me here, to change me to be even more powerful than I was, to assume that they’d be able to contain me._

_Pride comes before a fall…_

_…you know that saying goes both ways, right, Rogers? Can’t let myself get a big head…_

Treading water, Steve took in his surroundings. A single deep red warning light, partially obscured, cast bloody shadows over the walls and limned the crest of each ripple that spread out around him. Distant creaks and ticks and rattles spoke to equipment operating. Fresh water made a large pool, contained in an enormous vat: it appeared that Hydra had redirected the entire stream into here, complete with fish, judging by the brush he’d just felt against a tentacle. Pipes ran out in all directions, presumably funneling water around the complex, and a lattice blocked the top of the tank. Searching the perimeter, Steve found the latch, and could just make out a metal staircase and handrail leading to a platform beside the vat.

While he’d been imprisoned, he’d been too weak from hunger and fatigue and the ravages of torture to use his strength to break out of his cage.

Steve wasn’t weak any longer.

And he’d spent weeks training with his new body.

Suctioning the double rows of suckers on each tentacle to the wall for leverage, Steve rocked up and down to gain momentum, sloshing water over the sides of the tank. Rock…rock…rock…up, down, up, down, waves growing around him…when he had so much momentum he could scarce stop himself plummeting to the bottom of the tank, he wrapped both hands around the bars and surged upward. Metal shrieked, the bars rattled, something snapped, but it didn’t give. He rocked up again, down again, muscles in his arms bulging, hands twisting to torque and strain and apply pressure to any weak point that might exist, and the noise echoed and rattled around him. Red lights flashed, a klaxon sounded oddly distorted as Steve’s movements dropped him beneath the water than forced him back up out of it, and Steve pushed harder, harder, marshalling his strength.

With a snap, the grate gave way so abruptly that Steve slammed into the side of the tank.

In the distance, the echo of men shouting was audible over the roar of the klaxon. Steve leapt from the water, vaulted off the ladder platform and hurled himself at the nearest wall. His limbs slapped wet, splattering water around him, slamming his face into concrete. Damn, that hurt; he’d have to practice bracing his tentacles to prevent inertia from hurting him. The simultaneous _clack, clack, clack_ of a dozen pairs of boots approaching drove Steve to haste; he flailed – _crawled?_ – his way up the wall, adhered to the ceiling, straining to hear if water was yet splashing off him. No dice – over the other noise, he could hear nothing. There _must_ be a puddle beneath him; beads trailed down his face and caught in his hair. There were no obvious hiding places. Hydra would know there was an intruder in the facility as soon as they saw the metal grate.

Hopefully, they wouldn’t look up.

_Forget about it. If they track me by the water splashes, then they track me. The sooner they come to me, the sooner I can incapacitate them, facilitating our escape. And if they attack pell-mell, so much the better._

Moving as quietly as he could, Steve crept across the ceiling, stopping above the normal-sized door that seemed squat and small in the large wall. The patter of reinforced boot heels running over the concrete floor drew closer, and Steve scarce dared breathe as a file of soldiers stormed into the room. With practiced precision, they arrayed around the vat of water, rifles at their shoulders, aimed to shoot at anything emerging from the tank.

No one guarded the door.

Steve darted down, through the doorway, and up the wall of the hallway beyond. Behind him, men shouted in German – _“Show yourself, intruder!”_ How long would it take them to notice the water on the floor, realize the cage over the tank was broken, and realize he’d flown the coop? Anyone who walked down the brightly lit corridor would see him. Safety and quiet be damned; Steve bolted toward the far door, clinging to the ceiling, ignoring the soldiers’ talk muffled behind him. With his tentacles propelling him forward and his body inverted, everything look strange and unfamiliar. While practicing, Steve had attempted to prepare for every contingency he might encounter but he’d missed some damn obvious ones; he’d have to practice being upside down more if he was going to engage in ceiling-sticking shenanigans on the regular. Dodging around corners, avoiding the heat of glowing fluorescent lights, crawling down walls to get through the tops of doorways, all was disorienting and weird and new and Steve didn’t have _time_ for the resulting distraction. He bolted through a door and froze.

The cages arrayed in the vast, warehouse-style prison were precisely as he remembered, laid out like so many dog kennels, lit as bright as day no matter the hour. Those trapped within had no way of knowing it was the dead of night, and all were awake, alert, rattling at the bars of their jail cells, and for once there were no guards forcing them to silence. There was no way Steve could hide; shouts, either in a foreign tongue or rendered incomprehensible by the cacophony, heralded his entrance has he hurried up the wall to the ceiling, and gunshots rang out.

There were still guards here.

Good. They probably had the cage keys.

Bullets spattered around him, off the mark by inches and feet, ricocheting off the cement of the ceiling with a _pfft-pfft-pfft_ and a gentle rain of plaster dust. The source was… _there_ , a knot of soldiers tugging at each other and pointing at him, two with side arms drawn. Sprinting across the ceiling, Steve ran toward them and then detached his suckers to hurl himself toward the ground. The group of soldiers realized their danger too late, their aim lagging far behind Steve’s actual position, and he landed amidst them, a whirlwind of tentacles and arms lashing out to knock them down, slap them, punch them, and incapacitate them. Though Steve was outnumbered six to one, though Steve was super human and highly trained and easily a match for six, even _he_ was shocked by the alacrity with which he defeated the group. And this was him out of practice, weak with hunger, and still adapting to his new body. It had taken him months to learn to fight to the peak of his abilities after taking the serum. When he’d had commensurate training on using his tentacles…

Had Hydra _intended_ to make him into a nigh-unstoppable fighting machine equal to a score of men in a fight? Steve let the thought percolate as he reached out tentacles and both arms to rifle through the fallen soldiers’ accoutrements for the keys. If they _hadn’t_ intended him to grow this powerful, fine and dandy, they were in for a surprise. If they had intentionally made him this strong…Steve grabbed anything he found that looked, or felt, or _tasted_ useful. The possibilities of Steve’s new, incredible abilities had been given to him _intentionally_ were far more provocative and troubling.

One of the soldiers had chocolate in his pocket.

Steve was one lucky son of a bitch.

Multitasking as he’d never dreamed possible, Steve suctioned the helpful items to one tentacle, unwrapped a single small square of chocolate with another, slapped down a soldier who tried to rise with a third, and fumbled through two sets of keys with a fourth.

_They were trying to brainwash me, when they showed me the pictures of the girl they killed. If I hadn’t escaped – if they’d kept at me and kept at me…_

One of the keyrings bore only three keys; the other, heavy and jangling, had easily 20. Rushing toward the first occupied cage, Steve awkwardly tried to free the keys from the ring. Yells, echoing over the high ceiling and down the surrounding corridors, spoke to more soldiers approaching, and Steve didn’t have time to dick around. He got one key free, a second, a third; distributing them to different tentacles, he tried them in the lock in rapid succession, passing keys back and forth.

_How am I even—_

A key dropped to floor with a tinkle. The woman within huddled against the far side of her cage, eyes wide with terror, and Steve cursed.

 _As long as I don’t_ think _about how to use my tentacles I have no problem so for the love of Pete_ stop thinking about it _._

Autopilot had always been a concept that made Steve leery, but clearly it was the way to go. His body knew what to do, even if his intellect did not.

The ninth key snapped into place, the lock turned, and Steve yanked the door open.

“Are you—” the woman gasped. God it was nice to hear an American accent.

“Yeah, I’m a half-octopus monster – we can talk later, come on – grab some keys and help me get the cages open!” Steve said in a rush, thrusting three key-laden tentacles toward her.

“Are you _Captain America_?” finished the woman, grabbing the keys.

Stunned, Steve could only stare as she ran down the narrow path between the cages toward the next cell containing a prisoner. _Get it together, Steve! More important things than celebrity right now!_ Nobody had time for him to be taken up short. Steve might be indifferent to gunfire, but he doubted most of the prisoners had super powers and any moment more troops would arrive and likely open fire on the hapless, trapped people. Or, Steve realized, recalling the wooziness caused by whatever had been released into his tank during transport, they might suffuse the room with incapacitating gas, or, or, or…

“Yeah, that’s me – Steve Rogers,” Steve shouted after her. “Anyone know if these bastards are testing anyone right now? Anyone?”

The question was echoed by the woman, echoed in foreign languages around the room. The next cage opened on the sixth try, and Steve distributed more keys to the freed person. Nearby, the woman had someone else out and handed them a key, and with each released prisoner, the speed at which they operated increased.

“They’re torturing Umar,” the first woman shouted to Steve as they passed each other. She sprinted down a narrow corridor between cages; Steve climbed atop them to move faster and keep out of the way.

A bullet skimmed his arm.

Bonus, being atop the cages made him a highly visible target. The person shooting at him was…Steve spotted the culprit, a soldier who’d frozen in the doorway and who, even at a distance, Steve could see shaking as he held his gun up. Troops bottlenecked behind him, hurling invectives in Russian and German, but the frightened young man didn’t budge, instead firing again.

“Catch!” Steve called to Carlos as they passed each other, hurling the remaining keys to him. Carlos’ curses followed Steve as he sped forward, his tentacles curling around bars to propel him forward, his suckers ensuring he kept his balance.

 _I take back_ every single bad thing _I ever thought about this new body. This is absolutely_ incredible _._

The pistol in the soldier’s hands clicked on an empty chamber once, twice, a half dozen times as he belatedly followed Steve with his aim and tried to fire. Steve wrapped a tentacle around the gun – _oh crap that hurts, I forgot the damn thing would be hot_ – and jerked it free from the soldier’s hands. The man over-balanced, tripped, and Steve slammed an arm into his back. As soon as he was down, his comrades stormed forward, but the doorway forced them to advance single file and they were easily dispatched, left in a sprawled mound of bodies on the floor. Further gunfire spoke to more troops across the vast hallway, and Steve charged. Twinges of pain accompanied his rapid movements, from his burned tentacle, the scratch left by the bullet that oozed blood down his arm, a knuckle that had burst on a punch, but he pushed the pain aside, as he always did. Getting hurt was part and parcel of combat; he’d have time to rest afterwards if he survived.

Steve caught the situation in the room in blurred glances as he rushed toward the enemy. Most or maybe all the prisoners seemed to be free, gathering into a group, shouting after him. Confusion reigned. As far as Steve’s reconnaissance had been able to tell, there was only one way out of the complex – train – and Steve hoped like hell there was one parked in the loading area.

Pain jolted through one of Steve’s tentacles a moment before he barreled into the Hydra soldiers. Gunshots rang out dangerously close, someone screamed, skin slapped on skin, and Steve had no attention for anything beyond the opponent he was grappling with. A kick landed on his stomach, another searing line of pain cut across his body, and something splashed agony down his skin, dripping excruciating agony with every droplet.

_Damn, I was right about the gas thing – they’re raining acid on us or...or...something...have to get everyone out, gotta keep them safe..._

“Get through the door!” he shouted, grabbing two of the freed prisoners and shoving them forward. “Come on, we gotta get out of here!”

_...what is it with me and no-win situations in enemy compounds? Rogers, find a new hobby._

He shoved the Hydra soldier he was fighting aside – he didn’t like letting death rain down on anyone, even someone working for Hydra, but he was less concerned about the captors than the captives. Urgency kept him moving, kept him herding everyone to safety, and only when some two dozen people had assembled, breathing hard, in the wide hallway did Steve realize that he’d overstated the magnitude of the danger. Nothing had rained on the prisoners. Blood streaked Carlos’ face, a young man Steve recalled once seeing dragged by his cell had a bullet wound in his shoulder, blood soaking the tatters of what Steve thought might once have been a Nazi uniform, and an older woman in clothes that wouldn’t have been out of place in any village in eastern Europe limped, but only he had the crawling, creeping wounds over his shoulder, pus and blood leaking out, curves and divots mirroring how whatever had burned him had flowed.

It hurt like crazy.

But Rogers – _no, I’m Steve, I don’t need to revert to behaving like the perfect soldier, even in a situation like this, I can hold onto myself_ – could handle the wound. He’d taken the serum. He’d sustained worse.

_Ya know it’s okay to admit that it hurts, to acknowledge that after this I’ll need time to recover..._

_...yes._ After _. Not now. Steve Rogers, time to get in gear._

“How many are we missing?” he asked breathlessly, turning to the woman whom he knew spoke English.

“Two that I know of,” she replied. The freed prisoners made a motley group, more men than women, more young than old, wearing remnants or portions of a dozen different uniforms. The woman had only a stained blouse and a Canadian navy issue blue skirt, her dark hair matted, her arms and legs bare. “How did you—”

“No time for that,” interrupted Steve. A flare of pain washed the pale gray walls red – or was that the alarms yet going off? The world was so _loud_. “There’s a...a garage or...depot or something, where the train that brings the supplies parks. Find it. I’ll go rescue the remaining prisoners and meet you.”

“Mr. Rogers, you’ve been shot three times and had acid poured on you, you’re in no condition to—”

“My rank is _Captain_ , ma’am, and we can talk when everyone is safe,” Steve interrupted again. If they spent thirty seconds arguing about each ludicrous aspect of this situation they’d be here ‘til kingdom come.

“Right, of course. My apologies, sir.” Her tone was crisp and business like, Steve’s sharp words reminding her of duty, and he was glad she didn’t protest further. He pressed the guns he’d seized into the hands of able-bodied prisoners. They needed the bullets more than he did. Leaving her to organize everyone as best she might, he hurried down the hall. The sound of her speaking French, and another person simultaneously translating to German, and another to Italian, was audible over the klaxons.

A scuffing sound close on his heels had him spinning around, left arm at the ready, right arm quaking in pain as he tried to lift it. Carlos froze, raising his arms defensively.

“No, Carlos – don’t...” Hardly a word of Spanish would come to Steve. _Focus, focus..._ “Tú...vas. Vas con los otros.” He waved back at the others. Carlos shook his head.

“Necesitas ayuda,” Carlos replied sternly. “Yo...I help.”

“Hell...” muttered Steve. “Fine, come on, let’s do this.” He had no idea if Carlos understood, but he sprinted – _rolled?_ – down the hall and Carlos followed.

The second mystery key ring jangled in his hand. The hallway down which they ran was wide enough for four men to march abreast and ran along one side of the large room that served as the prison. There was only one other door, at the far end, certainly an intentional bottleneck, but no troops appeared. Steve had estimated 25 soldiers in the compound; he and the other prisoners had already incapacitated a dozen or maybe fifteen, and if the guard towers were manned, that would employ another four. That hardly left anyone to give them trouble, and sure enough, they encountered no one as they ran through the door and hung a u-ey down another hallway, identical save for the string of solid black doors piercing it at regular intervals. The angle distorted perspective but Steve counted five.

Turning toward the nearest, he fumbled with the keys, hoping like _hell_ they would work, when Carlos shouted and a gunshot struck the door knob inches from Steve’s hand. One of the doors down the hall was open, a furious man peering out through spectacles so strong they made his eyes look overlarge.

“It’s _you_ ,” the new arrival snarled in German. “Welcome back, Herr Rogers.” Two more men, wearing white lab coats with the Hydra logo embroidered red over the breast, peeked out then dove back in. Holding up his functional arm, his other dangling at his side, Steve crept down the hall, trying to keep his body between the gun and Carlos. “Don’t make me shoot you,” continued the German snidely. The voice was familiar, but Steve couldn’t place it. As muddled as his memories of his torture and body modification were, it was a miracle Steve remembered his own damn name. “Hydra isn’t done with you yet. We—”

Balling up the end of one tentacle like a fist, Steve clocked him in the face.

The idiot had _no idea_ about the reach of Steve’s new and improved lower body.

_Seriously, seriously improved. I should send Herr Reinhardt a ‘thank you’ card. Ma always said that was good manners when someone gives you a gift._

The mystery scientist dropped like a ton of bricks, an awkward snapping sound suggesting he’d broken something.

After all the pain he’d caused others, it was the _least_ he deserved.

Steve leapt into the torture chamber masquerading as a laboratory, a whirlwind of anger, pain, and tentacles. The remaining Hydra scientists fell in moments, and Steve waved Carlos to help the victim strapped to the gurney as he stormed out of the room, back into the hallway. Anger leant him a surge of energy; the prisoner was a bloody mess and Steve doubted he could be saved.

_I was too late. Damn it, Rogers._

What had been done to that prisoner, what had been done to all the prisoners, what had been done to Steve _wasn’t okay_ and that these Hydra soldiers were so lost to humanity as to have normalized torture infuriated him. Screw wasting time finding the right key. Steve wrapped a tentacle around each door knob, jerked with all his considerable might, and snapped the flimsy locks that Hydra had installed. A bullet shot rang out, loud in the close quarters, but Steve couldn’t see where the shooting had taken place. None of the rooms down the hall were occupied, but the last was an office, desk heaped with ordered papers, filing cabinet neatly labeled in German. Running over, Steve grabbed the active files, opened one of the drawers and wrapped tentacles around as many folders as he could carry. There was no way for him to get everything, no time to pick out what was important and what wasn’t, so Steve bundled up three tentacles-full and headed back out.

Carlos emerged alone from the torture chamber at the same time Steve returned to the hall. Their eyes met and Carlos shook his head, shook the hand holding the pistol Steve had given him. At the far end of the hall, the Canadian woman leaned through the doorway and looked a question at him.

“No survivors,” Steve explained. “And no exit this way.”

_What was that book that Dernier was always going on about? Something about Closed Doors and hell being other people…_

_…this is definitely hell, and the cause of all the hell we’ve experienced the past years has_ definitely _been other people. That all the Hydra loyalists save Schmidt himself are normal human beings is the true horror of the situation._

Hastening back down the hallway to rejoin his comrades, Steve glanced into the room Carlos had emerged from. Blood pattered to the floor, splashing in a growing puddle on the floor, seeped thick from the bullet wound in the prisoner’s forehead. Forcing his gaze away, Steve met Carlos’ eye again and they shared a nod of understanding.

Killing a man in dire suffering was merciful and _human_.

No further discussion was needed.

Steve turned to the Canadian woman, and though she couldn’t have seen what happened, he saw the same understanding on her face. Could the prisoner have been saved, Steve and Carlos would never have returned down the hallway alone. She knew that. Everyone knew that.

Every single one of them had been subjected to the same treatment.

_Well, no…none of them have tentacles._

_But the equivalent…and they’ve got no serum to help them...it’s worse, what was done to them, much worse than anything that’s been done to me._

“Let’s go,” Steve said gruffly, gathering everyone to follow him with a gesture and returning to the main holding area.

Only minutes had passed, though it felt a lifetime, and none of the unconscious guards stirred. The room was eerily still, walls echoing with the flare of the alarm. The layout of this place made no damn sense, and Steve suspected there were hidden doorways or some such equivalent nonsense to be found. They’d yet to locate a single place for soldiers to sleep, and—

“There!” cried one of the prisoners in Japanese, pointing over the cages to a third exit from the room. As a group, they turned down the next path between cages that would lead them there. A gap wide enough for a car to drive down separated the last row of cages from the wall, and a tall pair of double doors stood open.

 _Well, at least now we have_ some _idea how they moved equipment around, but seriously, who designed this place?_

Shaking off the thought – it didn’t matter, all that mattered was finding the last missing prisoner and a means of escape – Steve led the way through the door.

Whereas the previous exits had led to ridiculously long hallways, this one opened immediately into a second enormous room. Crates stamped in German and Russian made stacks big enough that the spaces between the piles seemed cavernous hallways, and the room was dark save for the continued flash of red warning lights, silent save for the unending _wa-oooh, wa-oooh_ of the alarm.

“Split up,” Steve ordered, the command echoed immediately in many voices, in multiple languages. “Shout if you find anything. Look for the remaining captive!”

As the freed prisoners broke in a half-dozen directions through the maze of passageways, Steve suctioned his way up the side of a crate, mounting to the top of the nearest stack. This storage room was another fool’s example of design. The crates were mounted so high Steve couldn’t fathom how regular men could move them without fueled equipment, much less access the contents.

_Unless I’m not the only—_

A mysterious _pfft_ , loud in the silence between klaxons, was Steve’s only warning that he was under attack again. In the darkness, he hadn’t a clue where the muted shot had originated, so he dropped flat on the crates. Pain screamed through his acid burned shoulder, ached through his punctured tentacle. A bullet buzzed over his head.

_Stupid, stupid, stupid, to think that Schmidt and I are the only science experiments around. Incredibly, insanely foolish. Suicidal, even._

The crate Steve was huddled on was labeled in big, blocky Cyrillic that translated to ‘Explosives.’

_Enough beating around the bush. Time to skedaddle…_

Triumphant shouts spoke to his allies finding something of use. Wood shattered beside him as another bullet struck close, splinters digging into his skin. In a glance, Steve took in the angle of the shot, the trajectory, noticed that there was no one in the corridors amidst the boxes closest to him, nowhere else someone could shoot from unless they were also atop the crates. Steve could see no one else, but the shadows could have held a multitude of gunmen.

If he blew the facility sky high, whoever the gunman was wouldn’t make it. A part of him rebelled at the idea of destroying the compound, killing everyone within, but he need only think of the torture they’d all been subjected to and his determination firmed.

Hydra didn’t see people who opposed them as human.

Steve _did_ see the people who opposed him as human, but he also accepted that when people set themselves on a course diametrically opposed to right and good, dedicated themselves to hate and exclusion, they made a choice, and they had to live with, or die with, the consequences of that choice.

Steve suctioned a half-dozen tentacles to the top of the crate labeled ‘Explosives’ and wrenched the top off.

“Captain – Captain, are you coming?” The Canadian woman ran down the corridor toward him, flinched and dove for cover behind a crate as another shot rang through the room.

“Yeah...” he said distractedly, eying the ordnance. “Have you seen any sign of the last prisoner?”

“No,” she said. “He’s been missing for a few weeks, but I hoped...”

“If it’s been weeks, he’s probably dead,” Steve said, mostly to convince himself. For no reason he could put his finger on, he felt like time was running out. He’d not spotted any further doors; he’d been through almost the entire complex, and unless Hydra had somehow dug a basement in the frozen Siberian ground, there was no place else someone could be hidden.

_No matter how much I want to, I can’t save everyone._

_I couldn’t save Bucky._

_Sometimes, I’m amazed I can save_ anyone _._

“I gotta take care of something. I’m passing the intel down to you.”

_It’s enough. However much we do, it’s enough. It’ll have to be enough._

“Intel?” she asked. “I thought we didn’t have ti—” Steve interrupted her by dropping down the tentacles in which he carried the folders he’d taken. Grumbling under her breath, she took the files, grunting as she hefted the last batch, the pile filling her arms and tugging at her blouse.

“Get everyone out of here,” he said. “I’m going to make sure no one _ever_ suffers here again.” He hefted one of the large shells out of the case and held it up for her to see.

“Right.” She nodded slowly. A bullet skimmed over Steve’s uninjured shoulder. “You do that. Be careful, Captain.”

“I’m always careful,” he said with a wink, hoisting another shell.

She snorted. “I just met you, and even _I_ can tell you’re lying. Your girlfriend must cry herself to sleep every night with worry.”

_Did I make Peggy cry?_

_Probably, when I ‘died.’_

“No girlfriend.” He pulled out a third shell, considering ways of igniting the damn things.

 _Did I make_ Bucky _cry?_

There was no point in storing ordnance in the base if there was no weapon from which to launch it. These were sizable shells, which meant there must be an equally sizable howitzer around _somewhere_.

_I honestly have no idea._

_I’ve never seen Bucky cry._

_God, not even once. I never thought about that before._

_I hope I never caused him that grief._

“Go!” he urged her, ducking between the rows of crates barely in time to dodge another bullet. Whoever was firing at him was on the move; this one hadn’t come from the same direction as the previous.

The Canadian woman was gone by the time he swung back atop the crates. Steve gathered up another few shells and, balancing on his remaining tentacles, sprinted over the crate tops, vaulting over the gaps between rows through a complex sequence of tentacle movements that he didn’t dare examine closely. Shots followed him, always lagging behind, and he pushed himself faster, weaving and swaying so that the shooter couldn’t get a bead on him. The maze of crates ended abruptly in a wall of stacked boxes, beyond which was a large space – the complex hadn’t seemed nearly so large from outside – housing a locomotive with no cars attached, a BA model that Steve couldn’t identify on sight, and the hoped-for heavy artillery, a single canon rigged out to be tugged by train, partly covered by a tarp.

_Perfect._

Shots whooshed around him, four in quick succession in the brief moments he was distracted taking in his surroundings. The group of freed prisoners sprinted across the cleared floor toward the locomotive, shouting, though Steve couldn’t figure out what they said. Making as if to leap to the floor, Steve instead swung several tentacles skyward and jumped, barely catching himself on the ceiling by the suckers. The ordnance weighed him down, and his continuing efforts to not use his...dicks?...for sensitive tasks made them little use, but he managed. Scurrying toward the cannon, Steve kept his tentacles close, kept his body at an angle close to the wall, and turned, darted, sped up and slowed down unexpectedly. Shots followed him, and an unfamiliar voice swore increasingly loud frustration in Russian. Glancing back, Steve could make out the silhouette of his assailant, a black shadow against the flashing red lights. Facial features, height, weight, even gender were indistinguishable, only the raised outline of a head and the gleam of light off the barrel of a gun to say the shooter was there at all. Except...

Except light glimmered and twinkled where it shouldn’t, off the fabric of whatever the sleeve of the person’s jacket was made from, red picking out overlaying metal plates structured as if the attacker wore Medieval armor.

Steve tore his gaze away and dropped down behind the howitzer, using one tentacle to throw the cover aside. The model was unfamiliar, but Steve had training on a range of American, Canadian, British, and even German models, and this Russian model wasn’t different enough to stump him. Laying his spare ammo on the floor, Steve focused on the task at hand, determinedly ignoring the difficulty of said task. As long as he didn’t think, he could lay the ammunition in the breech and drive it home with two tentacles, ready the next cartridge with another tentacle, and use his functional arm and the other tentacles that he wasn’t standing on to aim. The armored plate mounted on the gun to protect the crew manning it protected Steve from continued shots fired in his direction, metal tolling like a bell every time it was struck. Eying the line of crates ahead of him, Steve pointed the muzzle as far down as it would go and targeted the crate of ordnance he’d opened. If he could hit that...

...well, it _might_ not ignite, depending on how stable this ammunition was...

...but Steve had heard stories about the shoddy construction of Russian ammunition, and the labeling and the howitzer model both suggested Russian-made shells. There was no reliably hitting something close with a weapon meant to be used at a range of up to six miles, but he sure as hell could propel a shell _through_ the crates before him.

The muzzle wouldn’t go lower than a roughly ten degree angle to the ground, easily high enough to send the shell through the ceiling.

“Damn it all...this is a terrible idea, Rogers...” muttered Steve. He squatted...or let his tentacles go flush with the ground, same difference, right?...and got his shoulders beneath the trail assembly. “Why do I let you talk me into this shit?” Straining, Steve tried to lift the tail end of the cannon, but even with his strength it wouldn’t give. “This...” He huffed, shifted, tried again. “...is...” He had no idea how much the rig weighed. “...damn...” He had only the vaguest sense how much he could carry – in the past he’d lifted more than a thousand pounds and less than a ton. “...impossible...” Desperation and necessity bred determination and strength. “... _fuck_!”

Steve’s body shook with effort, his tentacles quavering.

The howitzer pivoted on its wheels.

Bullets spattered against the shield.

Steve slammed the shell into place, spared three tentacles to set the firing sequence, and braced himself for the kick back.

...and... _fire_!

_Boom!_

Steve slammed into the wall a dozen feet behind the gun, his ears ringing with the explosion, the blaring of the klaxon, the crash of the howitzer back to the ground, and the shattering of the crates. The hoped-for eruption didn’t come, but a shriek cut through all the other noise and Steve turned to see steam coming from the smokestack of the locomotive.

_One more shot...I can take one more shot and still catch the train...I want this facility wiped off the face of the planet. I want to find every single other facility like this and turn them into craters._

_I can do this._

Steve didn’t think about how difficult it was, how heavy the howitzer was, how challenging he found it to coordinate his limbs. His chest felt compacted by his impact against the wall, the copper taste of blood slowly seeped into his mouth, a bead streaming down his chin, and his ears rang even though he was fairly sure the only sound in the room was the alarm _still_ going off. No further shots tinked and ricocheted around him, and the silhouette was gone from atop the line of crates – the crates themselves were gone, shattered into their component parts, a pile of splinters, packing material, and mystery contents. If his first shot had done nothing else, he was fairly sure he’d killed the sniper.

_Second shot..._

_...fire!_

The gun boomed, but rather than waiting for the rebound, Steve launched himself at the wall and sprinted to the locomotive. The train crept forward, gaining momentum, and Steve was almost there, almost there, almost...

A concussive blast louder than anything Steve had heard in all his time in war, as forceful as his dim memories of nose-diving Schmidt’s plane into the arctic ice, threw Steve forward. His vision went blank, and when it cleared, he was clinging to the outside of the train, hurtling down the tracks, propelled by something in the crates catching and exploding.

 _That had no right to work_.

The locomotive ripped through the doors, tore into the frigid, snowy night.

_No, seriously, this should be actually, literally, impossible._

The exterior fence gave way even more easily, in a clatter of metal. The world rang, bizarrely loud, bizarrely silent in the absence of that damn klaxon. Turning back, Steve watched as smoke and fire billowed through the open door. The destruction didn’t seem general, the roof still intact, the flames apparently limited to the wood of the crates. A figure stood before the orange glow, a black outline, broad shoulders suggesting a man, a rifle held negligently at his side. Despite the distance and the darkness obscuring every feature, Steve could swear their eyes met, the figure lifted his rifle, and—

—and the Hydra compound was engulfed in a fire ball, debris and shrapnel peppering the snow, the locomotive, the snow-covered train tracks, and Steve. Shocked, awed, thrilled, Steve whooped victory to the uncaring night, scarce able to hear himself. As the eruption receded, leaving behind the shell of the building, interior ablaze, brilliant amidst the drifting flakes, Steve made his way over the outside of the train and to the door leading into the engine room. The locomotive picked up speed as it drove from the scene. Tearing tore the cabin door open, Steve swung within and froze as four pistols were trained on him simultaneously.

“Woah!” he said, or he thought he said. Sound still didn’t work right. Damn, his chest hurt. Whatever he said, it worked. Canada lifted a restraining arm but it was unnecessary; the freed men were already lowering their weapons. The space was dark and cramped, lit by the glow of the burning coal, highlighting the features of the men and women. As soon as they realized he wasn’t a threat, most slumped against each other. The cabin was meant to hold two, maybe three men; there were, by Steve’s quick count, 22 of them; the only square of bare ground was where one woman worked, so close to the flames that her forehead sweat despite the frigid cold of the evening as she monitored the fire and kept the engine running. There was no place for Steve; he lifted himself to the roof and got comfortable as best he could against the ceiling, suction cups holding him place, cold burning his suction cups, burning his taste buds. He was hurt badly, he suspected, but he’d been hure worst, not least when his _damn legs were cut off and replaced by tentacles._

He’d heal.

Silence reigned, broken only by the ragged breathing of the freed prisoners and the hiss of the fire and steam propelling the train.

“So,” Canada said at length. “Captain...now what?”

“That’s a great question,” said Steve, exhaustion tinging his voice. “Honestly? I got no idea. I was one of you until a few weeks ago. I’m just doing my best with a shit situation.” _No, admitting weakness is bad command etiquette. No matter how fallible I am, I need to_ pretend _infallibility_. The Canadian clearly expected as much from him; her eyes were wide as she blinked concern and fear. The few others who spoke English look equally troubled, while someone translated to broken Spanish for Carlos until he nodded understanding.

“Radio?” Carlos asked, emphasizing the syllables weirdly.

“Yes – there’s a radio here,” the engineer confirmed, pointing at a dial that looked as mysterious as the rest of the equipment and gauges that Steve was glad conveyed information to _someone._ It hadn’t crossed his mind that they’d need someone who knew how to run a train in order to escape.

_Good going, Steve._

_Shove it, Rogers. It worked out, right? Luck. Can’t always bank on luck..._

“¿Dónde estamos?”

“Where are we?” translated the man beside Carlos, hard to understand through an Italian accent.

“The Soviet Union,” Steve explained. Quickly, he told what he knew of their situation. By the time he finished, everyone was awake, wide-eyed, his words conveyed in all the languages the captive spoke until everyone understood that the war was over, the Axis defeated, and a tense peace resumed between the Allies. Reactions ranged from relieved prayers to alarmed muttering, but Carlos listened to everything impassively.

“Bien – muy bien,” Carlos said at length into the silence that followed Steve’s explanation. “I...I help...” Carlos frowned and slapped one hand against the other, throwing one out before him as if the second hand had left the first behind. “El barco...”

“A ship,” the translator said.

“Sí,” Carlos nodded. “Yo...radio...el barco. ¿Lo entiendes?”

“Yes – yeah, I entiendes.” Steve grinned. “Okay, then, plan – take this train as far as it’ll go, hopefully the coast, and get a Spanish ship to take everyone to safety. Sound good?”

Canada looked skeptical, but she nodded, and apparently her word counted for something with the others, for the tension ebbed and within minutes most were asleep. It wasn’t a solid plan, but it was better than _no_ plan.

Metal glinted near the floor; sleepy, Steve wasn’t sure he’d seen it correctly, and he blinked to clear the fatigue from his vision. No, there was definitely metal, polished and gleaming, sparkling orange, visible through the rags one of the prisoner’s wore in lieu of pants. Light highlighted the curve of the material, the plated joint of a knee. Scanning up, Steve startled as he realized that the person – gender was impossible to tell, they were gaunt, hair long and limp, shoulders slumped with defeat – was staring at him.

“Your leg?” Steve asked.

“Don’t understand,” the person – sounded like a woman, Steve thought – said sadly in Russian.

“They take your leg?” Steve repeated, switching to Russian. She nodded, using a skeletal hand to brush away the rags. Beneath, the limb was metal, jointed, and emblazoned with a red star.

“It hurt,” she said, “but what they did to you is worse.”

She spoke with conviction, but Steve shrugged. It wasn’t a contest, he didn’t need to win, and anyway, he doubted she was right. With his ability to heal, what had been done to him was awful but temporary, and the advantages conferred by his new limbs, the advantages that he’d continue to learn to take advantage of over the years, far outweighed the brief awfulness of being tortured.

The glint of the firelight off her leg was identical to the way the red emergency lights had glinted off what Steve had _thought_ was the armored arm of the shooter at the complex.

_What if...what if that was that person’s arm? What if he was a prisoner, tortured, changed, conditioned, and freed to serve them?_

_That’s what they were trying to do to me, right? With that last round of psychological bull?_

_What if..._

_No, it’s not worth worrying about. Even if he was a prisoner once, he was free now, and he tried to kill me._

_Even if he was a prisoner once, he’s dead now. No one could have survived that explosion._

The thought wasn’t comforting, but pain and exhaustion had Steve at his limit.

_I can’t save everyone._

_I can’t save everyone._

_I can’t save everyone._

Chanting the phrase as a mantra like so many counted sheep, Steve fell asleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts Thursday, June 15th, 2017!


	8. Chapter 8

If Steve had been less tired, he’d have thought through the ramifications of taking the train. After all, he’d been on this train line, presumably to be transferred from one Hydra base to another, which implied – and by _imply_ Steve meant _virtually damn guarantee_ – that a second Hydra base was situated on the other end.

None of the other prisoners knew that Steve had been taken from the complex by train. And Steve hadn’t told them.

Everyone, Steve included, was shocked when a low, dark, crypt-like structure resolved as a rectangle against the horizon, distinct from the glistening white snow that surrounded them in every direction as far as the eye could see.

A night’s rest did wonders for him, and for most of the captives. Pulling the binoculars from his backpack – contents still sodden but salvageable – Steve wiped the lenses, mounted to the top of the train car and observed what lay ahead of them. He’d hoped for a town or a village or even a damn depot, anything to explain where Hydra’s supplies and recruits came from. Instead, he’d observed a bunker that, at least from the outside, appeared identical to complex he’d blown sky high the night before. The only difference, and it was a hell of a helpful difference, was that _this_ base was on the coast, the gray of the building hard to distinguish from the murky, ice-filled water as they drew nearer. Five minutes fierce debate amidst his compatriots, back and forth in eight different languages, concluded that they might as well use the element of surprise as long as they had it and free whatever prisoners were held in this facility.

Given how complicated overthrowing the first Hydra base had been, Steve was shocked at how _easy_ it was to overthrow a second.

It took less than half an hour for Steve and his new cadre – _‘Howling Commandos’ is taken, we’ll need our own nickname if we’re going to keep this up…_ – to scour the Hydra base of enemy soldiers, free the prisoners, and gather the intel. The radio on the train had proved too weak to get out a signal that could reach Spain or wherever it was that Carlos was attempting to contact, but the Hydra base had an excellent radio. Faster than Steve could say ‘lickity split,’ Carlos contacted _el barco_ , had a conversation with the woman who responded in Spanish, both speaking so rapidly that Steve couldn’t pick out a single word, and now all they had to do was wait, the 22 of them along with the additional 15 prisoners freed from this facility.

With the Hydra soldiers and scientists incapacitated, locked in the cells that had previously been reserved for the prisoners, Steve had time to properly wire the place up to blow instead of firing blind and relying on luck. He was about lucked out for the day – heck, for a lifetime. Better to do things right, take it slow, and give the Hydra base the send off it deserved. He had gleeful help from the man from Japan who’d given his name as Takumi without indicating if that was a first name or a last name; Alison, the exhausted and impressively competent train engineer; and a German woman whose name Steve hadn’t caught, whom they’d rescued from this facility.

_Hydra makes for the strangest bedfellows…_

This complex proved to have a similar incomprehensible layout to the other. To Steve’s surprise and gratification, the men and women stationed there hadn’t been expecting an attack, which suggested that whatever alarms had sounded at the first base, no one had managed to radio any kind of central organization and relay the news. Or, perhaps, the damage that Steve and the SSR had done the previous winter had destroyed the central organization, and Hydra was still picking up the pieces? Hopefully, the answers to that and many other questions were in the files seized from this base’s office. Another set of train tracks ran off to the south and east, suggesting a third base, but there was no knowing how far inland it might be, or how many miles away, or how snowbound.

The prisoners at this location were in far worse shape, physically and mentally, than the ones at Steve’s base had been. Nearly all 15 had body modifications – limbs changed out for tentacles or animal parts or metal, enhanced strength or speed or healing or senses derived from taking some kind of serum cocktail, and one poor person was nothing but a head, still alive, still conscious, hooked up to tubes and vats that supplied them with sustenance. Each had been kept in isolated cells, cement squares with undersized doors, the big room from the first complex subdivided, and no two prisoners kept close enough together to communicate with another. When freed, three had lashed out violently and had needed to be incapacitated, and several of the others alluded to the psychological torments they’d been subjected to.

Instead of laboratories, this complex had examination rooms like the one in which Steve had been interrogated by Reinhardt. Several of the files Steve had hastily flipped through contained more photographs like the ones he’d been shown, images of torture, images of depravity, contrasted with images of happiness.

_Select picture 1 or picture 2._

Steve shuddered.

At least they’d freed these men and women before worse could be done to them. At least seizing this base gave them a warm, safe place to await the boat that Carlos swore was coming. At least a single uncomfortable night’s rest had been enough to heal most of Steve’s wounds, though the area where the acid had struck him still looked _off_ , different, hairless, the skin almost plasticized.

Steve couldn’t stop thinking about the man at the first base. The more he saw of Hydra’s brainwashing techniques, the more convinced he became that the person who’d shot at him was the missing prisoner that Lydia – the woman from Canada - lamented. None of the prisoners could tell Steve anything beyond that it was a man and he spoke English, but whoever he was, if he’d been psychologically tortured to the point that he dissociated and attacked potential rescuers, he deserved _help_ , and instead Steve had blown him up.

One of the survivors from the first base had suggested killing the three prisoners here that had attacked when rescued.

Steve had put the kibosh on that intention immediately, forcefully, and with finality. Anyone who wanted to hurt someone subverted and coerced into doing evil would have to get through him.         

Heck, he’d even convinced the others to capture and transport the Hydra soldiers instead of killing them. On the one hand, Steve felt guilty turning them over to Allied interrogators who would likely torture them. On the other hand, he couldn’t _imagine_ a group who had it coming more than those who had sanguinely dragged him and his fellows to their treatment and ignored their screams.

“Oi.” Carlos’ voice behind him startled Steve from the leads he was wiring so that he’d be able to destroy the base after the others debarked. He turned. “You…here…¿permaneces?” He pointed at the ground, but Steve shook his head, not understanding. “Live…here?” Carlos said, grimacing.

“Oh,” said Steve. “Will I _stay_ in Russia?” Carlos nodded. “Yes, I will.”

“I…también,” Carlos said, dropping to sit cross-legged beside Steve.

“Carlos…no, that’s a…” Heaving a sigh, Steve looked at his friend. He could talk himself blue explaining the many reasons Steve was suited to staying in the USSR and Carlos was not. He could talk himself to oblivion further explaining that as the one who’d called the ship for them, Carlos should stay with the others. Carlos had the _authority_ to radio the Spanish government and request rescue and actually have the request _granted_ , and so of everyone Carlos should especially accompany the rescuees.

Steve saved his breath.

“No,” said Steve firmly, explanation be damned.

“Sí,” Carlos replied, equally firmly.

Whatever he said, Carlos would scarce understand a word anyway. And, stubborn as Carlos was, even if he understood Carlos would ignore him.

“It’s...” Steve’s head fell back as he picked his brain for words. “Winter – cold!” He pantomimed shivering, fingers of one hand rubbing against the new, sensitive skin of the opposite shoulder. “You’ll freeze to death.”

“Hmm...” Carlos nodded, a pensive look on his face as if he were actually considering Steve’s objection.

“And you and I can’t even _communicate_!” Steve added with exasperation.

_This is your chance to get out of here, my friend, and I can do this alone._

_I never had to operate alone before._

_But I_ can _._

“I’d like to stay as well.” Lydia’s voice cut through Steve’s thoughts as he struggled for what he could say to convince Carlos. While they’d been talking, several of the others had approached –Alison, her hair held away from her face with a square of cloth she’d found somewhere, and Takumi, and the woman with the prosthetic leg. Steve stared discouraging daggers at the four of them, spared an additional look for Carlos, and got nothing but blithe serenity in return.

_Good one, Rogers. They’ve stared down their torturers and survived to tell the tale. Of course they’re unperturbed by me scowling at them._

“Before you bitch ‘n moan,” said Alison, voice thick with a Southern accent, “have you _looked_ at the records you took?”

“No, I was going to after,” Steve replied.

“What languages do you speak, Captain?” asked Lydia.

Steve had a bad feeling where this was going.

“English, obviously,” he said, unable to keep a pre-emptive note of resignation from his voice. “I’m fluent in German, Japanese and Russian. I’m decent at French, and I’ve got a few words of Italian, Russian, Spanish...”

“There are records in Chinese,” Takumi said, in Japanese. “And several of the languages that the peoples of eastern Siberia speak. I can read them.”

“I speak Mexican,” said Alison, giving Carlos a look which he returned with a shrug. “There are records in Portuguese, too, and Eye-talian.”

“I only flipped through a handful of documents and spotted 10 different languages,” Lydia explained. “I think they’re records from these Nazi bastards doing covert infiltration across the world.”

“Not Nazis,” Steve said. “Hydra. They started out as Nazis but Hitler wouldn’t play along with their plans – told them they wanted to go too _far_ – so they split off to be even _more_ evil without his help.”

“And, what, you want to take them down and think you can do so alone?” said Lydia.

“You’re super and hot and strong and brave to the point of stupidity but that’s a bit much even for an All-American like you, doll-face,” Alison added.

Steve stared at each in turn. He was pretty sure Takumi didn’t speak English, and Carlos definitely didn’t, yet they provided a unified front, matching stern expressions and hard stares. Steve could only shake his head.

“It’s...it’s Captain America, not...not All-American or…or…doll…” he mumbled. _Really?_ That’s _the only answer you can come up with? Way to go, Steve._ Ashamed, Steve sighed and said, “I’m not going to be able to talk you out of this, am I?”

“I stay,” Carlos declared.

The others nodded agreement.

Steve heaved another sigh.

His tiny seaside bunker could absolutely _not_ accommodate a half-dozen people. Two would be comfy. Three would be a stretch.

Not that he had any way of transporting them there anyway.

“Alright,” he said, raising his voice. “Change of plans. We are _not_ blowing this complex to hell! Let’s undo the explosives and re-rig them on the train tracks as a ‘just in case’ measure. Time to convert this place into home base.”

There were things Steve needed from his former temporary accommodations – he particularly wanted the sketching supplies back – but he’d have time.

_This is a terrible idea. Hydra will know right where to find us._

_And what’s so terrible about that? It’s about time they be forced to come to us._

_Any one of these people could be a sleeper agent._

_Innocent until proven guilty, Rogers._

_Peggy said she couldn’t help me. Even getting SSR to spring for a boat to take prisoners of war home was going to take all her clout. It seems like Carlos can get a ship whenever he wants, somehow, and isn’t worried about offending the Soviet government, and we’ve got a train line leading right out our front door._

_Will things be easy?_

_No._

_But when have things ever been easy?_

_SSR can’t help. No official Allied government can help. From here, with this team, I can do the most good._

We _can do the most good._

“Well? What are you all standing around for?” Steve said, a smile belying his harsh tone. “We’ve got work to do!”

* * *

Even with the sun out, the day was frigid. Theoretically, Steve sat on the roof of their new home base to keep a lookout for the ship that Carlos had summoned. Steve and his new Commandos had made the base home as much as they could. They’d ransacked every crate and bunk in search of warm clothing to get them through the winter, but even so, no human could stay out for long in the Siberian climate. It was cold enough that Steve was aware of the chill. Recent tests with a thermometer suggested that the water Steve found “comfortable” was perpetually a fraction of a degree above freezing. Recalling his first aid training…if Steve wasn’t superhuman, he’d have died in about half an hour after diving into the ocean, and instead he’d slept comfortable in the depths every night. Cold air affected him more than cold water did, but even so, it was about zero degrees out and Steve was fine.

Floes bobbed in the sluggish surf.

Water and ice chunks made a flawless arced dome of the distant horizon.

There wasn’t a ship in sight, and hadn’t been any day since Steve had started keeping lookout.

Small blessings.

The Hydra base had supplied Steve with ample paper to supplement the meager sheaf he’d found on the sunken U-Boat. Retrieving his things had been the work of an afternoon, the vulnerable papers and signal book snuggly wrapped in the fine oiled fabric. All that saved Steve from lookout death-by-boredom was his sketchpad.

At first, he sketched his surroundings. As much as Steve loved drawing landscapes, though, there were only so many ways he could recreate the rocky coastline, the frothy slosh of water, the fall of snow against the chain link fence separating the compound from the outside world, the distant inland horizon broken by sparse trees, or the ocean horizon flat save for the periodic floating mountain of ice drifting by. Occasionally, he’d get lucky and an animal would chance through his field of vision – seals were relatively common, the polar bears that ate them less so. One day a whale had surfaced amidst the floating ice. Birds came and went constantly – seagulls, penguins, some kind of duck that splashed eye-catching color amidst the gray landscape, others Steve couldn’t identify – but there were only so many ways Steve could draw birds.

He’d drawn so. damn. many. birds. over the past two weeks.

His pencil scratched absently across the paper, Steve’s attention on the vacant ocean horizon. A glance at his page showed him silhouettes and facial features of Peggy and Bucky. God, he missed them, and he could see in his artwork all the little ways that his memory of their features were fading, growing indistinct, blurry, _generic_. Sighing, Steve put the paper on the bottom of his pile and started on a new sketch of a sea-bird perched on the fence, the wind ruffling its feathers. One of these days, a conning tower would break the indistinct line where gray sea transition to pale blue sky. At least he could see the difference today. The border where earth ended and space began was invisible on cloudy days, and when it snowed visibility was reduced to the nearest waves and coastal rocks.

One of these days, there’d be a ship...Carlos swore up and down his allies were on their way. After making contact with the crew, Carlos had kept off the radios rather than risk communication being intercepted. Carlos’ faith in the crew he’d called was absolute and sincere, and Steve trusted Carlos, so he didn’t complain, but damn did he wish they could outreach once to see how far away the boat was.

Heck, even Carlos seemed troubled by how long it had been.

One of these days...

Yesterday hadn’t been that day.

Today didn’t seem likely to be that day.

Pessimism left Steve seriously doubting that tomorrow would be that day, either.

But the day _would_ come, and when it did...then, and only then, would Steve be able to cease his silent, cold, lonely vigil on the roof of the complex and—

Pain lanced through Steve’s side and he twisted inadvertently, the wind whipping his sketches from his hands. Spinning and flattening himself against the roof, Steve looked for his assailant, but saw no one. The sea was empty, not a ship in sight. The complex had been cleared, the Hydra soldiers yet imprisoned, complaining all the while as they were given the rations that had been intended for the prisoners while the freed captives dined high on the soldiers’ food. The train tracks leading into the complex might as well have ceased to exist, invisible beneath the smooth surface of the several feet of snow that had fallen since they’d taken control. The ground was bare for miles, the nearest trees looking like mere twigs where they punctured the horizon. Steve checked the perimeter of the fence every morning, spread his weight across his tentacles so as to not sink into the snow. It was nigh inconceivable that anyone could sneak up the Hydra complex but Steve had seen good men die because some asshole somewhere decided that what _shouldn’t_ happen _wouldn’t_. As ludicrous, unnecessary a precaution as it had seemed, Steve wouldn’t take the chance, so he checked, but he’d seen nothing save the wind-scoured remnants of the distinct tracks left by his suction cups.

A second shot glanced off the solid roof inches from Steve’s face and ricocheted into the air. The only angle the shot could have come from was...

Steve rolled backward and to the side, leaving a trail of frozen blood on the roof, and stared toward what he’d thought was an abandoned guard post. When they’d taken the building, the posts had been unmanned. They had no heat, no power, even the floodlights powered down, and so Steve hadn’t investigated them again. No one could climb up the tower without leaving footprints in the snow, or tentacle marks, or _something_ , some indentation to show where the dense, deep drifts had supported weight.

Hydra didn’t think their base vulnerable in the coldest cold, and, in any normal circumstances, they’d have been right.

Steve and his friends hadn’t constituted “normal circumstances.”

Neither, apparently, did Steve’s current assailant.

He’d been careful, but not careful enough.

Sunlight twinkled off something metal in the tower; after the days Steve had spent on the roof, he knew there was nothing within that could cause that tell-tale shimmer. Another shot pinged off the concrete near him _– but why do they keep missing? It makes no sense! I’m not moving_ that _fast..._ – and Steve did rapid mental calculations.

_If I “run”...if I get my tentacles underneath me just so, then...okay, go!_

Leaping to his feet, Steve circled to the side of the roof farthest from the tower and sprinted the length of the roof.

_One, two, three, four, five...pause...one, two, three, four, five...pause...well, that tells me nothing, every rifle I know with the range for this attack has a five-round clip..._

Though the rate of fire had been slow, once Steve started moving, it sped up, his assailant filling the air with shots none of which did worse than graze him. Slapping ten tentacles against the side of the building and pushing off hard, Steve launched himself across the hundred feet separating the building from the fences. He had no idea if he could jump so far, but regardless, the fall into snow wouldn’t hurt him and he doubted his attacker would expect it. Shots whooshed around him.

The shooter had found this Hydra facility. The shooter had survived the snow storm the previous night. The shooter was brave enough and resilient enough to hide and survive in the frigid tower. The shooter was patient enough to wait for an exact moment to attack, surely chosen intentionally for some unknown reason. By all appearances, the shooter was highly competent.

So why did they have such atrocious aim?

_What if they’re missing on purpose? What if this is a trap?_

The thought had scarce formed when, straining forward with his tentacles, Steve got a grip on the lower support rails for the tower. The metal felt colder than the surrounding air, his suckers adhering painfully, but he ignored the tug and tear of his flesh, hauled himself up with the combined strength of all his limbs.

Glass shattered and a dark form hurtled toward the ground.

Wheeling, Steve followed, hurling himself down, but he missed his target. The attacker rolled, unhindered by the deep snow, somehow light enough to balance atop it. Steve came up on his limbs staring at a masked man leveling a sniper rifle at him. A sunburst dazzled Steve’s sight where it glared off the man’s arm, gleaming like blood off the red star painted on his shoulder. His clothing was black, skin tight, and surely incapable of warming him adequately to survive in this climate unless the man was super human. The only color on the outfit was the Hydra logo embroidered over his breast, sewn in the exact same shade of crimson as the USSR star. A skin-tight mask covered his face, only his dark eyes and dark hair uncovered. The gun aimed Steve’s way was intimidating, steady and unwavering, but the man’s eyes were what arrested Steve. They were utterly dead, utterly impassive, completely inhuman, and inexplicably familiar.

_The man from the first base._

_The missing prisoner._

_Who, despite his professional grip on that gun, keeps missing me._

_There’s more going on here than meets the eye._

_I bet Hydra is hoping to take me alive, hence the grazing shot to my side and the other misses._

_But do they truly think this man can incapacitate me?_

Panting steaming clouds into the clear day, they stared each other down. Frozen flecks of blood flaked to the snowy ground with every movement of Steve’s chest.

“You’re not better than me,” said Steve in English. There wasn’t a glimmer of understanding, not the slightest shift in the man’s expression. “I know you don’t want to do this,” Steve tried again in German. No understanding. “They’ve brainwashed you. We’re not enemies.” Russian produced no response, either.

_If he’s one of the prisoners, there’s no guessing his native language, but even so...I expected him to at least acknowledge that I’d spoken._

Moving with lightning precision, steps light over the snow, the man lunged forward, wielding his rifle as a club. Steve parried, reached out with his tentacles to entangle the man’s legs, but he was faster than Steve anticipated – faster than Steve, with everything that implied – and he wheeled, drove the rifle down, and something sharp pierced Steve’s tentacle, pinning it to the snow. The man looked up, fierce triumph twisting his dead eyes.

Numbness spread up Steve’s tentacle, unlike any feeling the cold gave him.

_Poison._

_No. I will_ not _be taken again._

_And neither will you._

Gritting his teeth, dodging back from his attacker, Steve wrapped a fist around the affected tentacle.

_One, two..._

_...three!_

Gritting his teeth, Steve ripped the tentacle off.

“Fuck!”

Shit, but that hurt like crazy. Blood splattered the snow, steaming, and the detached tentacle squirmed in his grip before going still. Hoping like _hell_ that hadn’t been a terrible idea, Steve quashed the agony and hurled himself at his attacker.

The metal-armed man didn’t look surprised.

However this man had been trained had led him to _expect_ a foe to do something like _rip their own limb off_ rather than surrender an advantage.

Jesus fricken Christ. Hydra didn’t mess around.

Steve would never rest until the plague of Hydra was scourged from the earth. That they had done this to someone was unconscionable. Even had they victimized one of their own loyalists, it would have been bad, but to torture and turn a person who was most likely an innocent prisoner? This was beyond even what Steve had thought them capable off.

_But no one is so gone that they are past saving. I have to believe that. I have to..._

The man raised his gun again, staring unnecessarily down the sight at Steve.

 _And no matter how he was trained, no one prepared him for someone like me_.

Snow crunched under Steve’s tentacles as he leapt up, somersaulted and landed behind the man, tentacles already preparing and launching his next attack. His opponent was faster than Steve could imagine, wheeling and deflecting blows with his metal arm. As strong as Steve was, the man didn’t flinch, didn’t waver, and nothing Steve did seemed to hurt the prosthetic metal arm. Tentacle slapped on steel, leather clothing, and skin, Steve tasted cold and blood and pain and musk and something tantalizingly familiar that triggered an inexplicable ache of nostalgia in his gut, but he couldn’t break through the man’s guard. A blow to the head, a tentacle around the neck, pressure to the sternum, any of a number of blows should incapacitate his fellow-prisoner-turned-Hydra-soldier, and Steve tried, tried, tried to find a way past the flurry of parries, but he couldn’t.

No, worse than that – the longer they fought, the more the soldier modified his guard. Analyzing this strategy, Steve sought an opening, sought an opening, and he found them, but he wouldn’t take them. The man left a clear opportunity for Steve to drive a tentacle through his eye. He gave Steve a chance to rip his head off. He left opening after opening and they all had one thing in common.

Killing shots.

Steve’s opponent protected against incapacitation while _daring_ Steve to murder him.

The man had read Steve’s strategy expertly, adapted, and now challenged him with every exchange: _kill me, if you dare. Kill me, if you can. Kill me, you coward_. Their eyes met and Steve read the same message there, falling into depthless pale blue and black pupils.

_Kill me._

_Kill me, please._

“No!” Steve roared, surging forward.

If there was enough _human_ left in this person that Steve could read a plea for release in his expression, then there was enough human left for the man to be worth saving.

Spinning six tentacles in a bunch, Steve slapped the soldier across the arm once, twice, each blow more forceful than the one before, forcing his arm aside, forcing him back. With the second to last, Steve wrapped around the wrist and jerked the metal arm aside, and though the man tried to get his other arm up and the rifle in the way in time to block, Steve smacked suckers and tentacle across the Hydra agent’s face hard enough to send him flying backward. Mid-air, he twisted, somersaulted, landed in a squat, and sank inches into the snow, his metal fingers digging into the fluff, his rifle held beside him like a club. He made his first noise since their fight began, a frustrated _tsk_ , and as Steve propelled himself forward to renew the attack, the man dodged, leapt to his feet, and bolted toward the gap torn in the exterior fence when Steve’s new Commandos attacked the complex.

“Stop!” Steve shouted. He had no hope the call would arrest the soldier, and he bunched his tentacles under him and sprinted after, tucking the injured one flush with his body, protecting his penile tentacles, using the remaining 13 to move as quickly as he could.

Even at his fastest, Steve could scarce keep pace with the man.

_Powers observed so far: super-speed, super-reflexes, super hand-eye coordination, super-strength, impervious metal arm as responsive to stimuli and as functional as a real arm…_

_…and terrible aim._

_What gives? Was the whole point of this to poison me? But then why not try again? Why send someone on such a critical mission with only one dose?_

_Nothing about this encounter makes sense. What’s Hydra playing at?_

They rapidly left the former Hydra base behind. The soldier didn’t glance back to observe Steve’s pursuit, but his speed didn’t slacken. Arms pumping at his sides, he ran for all he was worth, white puffing beneath his feet, trails of steam trailing from his mouth. The only times Steve gained ground were when the film of ice atop the snow gave way beneath the man’s weight and he fell through and had to drag himself out, but even then he scarce slowed. His route took them parallel to the coast, past a rise of rocks deposited by the oceans, and around a bend.

Steve had seen homeless people cruising down the East River in boats larger than the skiff pulled up on the rocks of the shore. A small outboard motor was the only obvious means of propulsion. Steve’s attacker bolted to the boat, tossed his rifle within with a clatter, used brute strength to shove the boat into the waves, and leapt aboard. Shallow water splashed around Steve’s tentacles as he pursued, the rocks slick enough with an invisible sheen of ice that Steve struggled to find traction. The motor on the skiff roared to life, skipped, chugged as ice caught in the rotors, and then it surged through the surf, cutting a path out to sea.

Steve dove in after.

The shock of immersing himself in the cold sent pain rippling down his torn tentacle, seeping into the tears in his skin and the many small wounds to his suckers. The cascade of bubbles and sharp currents caused by the boat’s motor made it easy to follow, the water translucent in the afternoon sun. Steve kept close pursuit. It felt good to be in the water again, amazing to swim full-tilt. He’d mostly kept close to land, close to the prisoners who needed his help, since the attack on Hydra commenced. Dowsing himself in the waves dissipated the stretched out, dry feeling that he had largely learned to ignore, though not to like, and the small motor was no match to his speed.

_But where is he going?_

Capsizing the skiff would, theoretically, enable Steve to catch the soldier, but there was no guarantee that the man could survive the icy waves, no surety that he’d be able to breathe underwater or that he knew how to swim. He was a Hydra agent. Hydra _must_ have a third base of operations from which they’d deployed him.

That information was more valuable than anything this man could tell him. The man was brainwashed, for goodness sake, Steve would probably have to torture him – torture him _even more_ than he’d surely already been tortured! – to get information from him.

No way.

He wouldn’t do it.

The soldier was one man – a dangerous man, a super-powered man, but a man nonetheless. Hydra was the threat that needed to be defeated. Steve could let one man go in the face of that threat.

So Steve swam.

Day faded towards dusk as the pursuit continued. Steve’s eyes had adapted fully to whatever chemicals Hydra had pumped into him to enact the change. He could see underwater, see in gloom, as he’d never been able to before. The darkening the depths didn’t hamper him. However dark it grew above the water didn’t seem to hamper the skiff, either. Aside from periodic course corrections, the soldier forged a confident path, land long out of sight, as if following a beacon.

_Maybe he is? Maybe they have a way to track him, or maybe there’s a radio implanted in his arm or something. It’d make sense. He’s not just a soldier, he’s an asset. He’s powerful, effective, and completely under their control. He’s too valuable to risk losing._

_This whole thing could still be a trap._

_He must know I’m following him._

_Maybe he’s leading me into a cage, or…_

There was little chance Hydra knew how much Steve was capable of. He’d escaped before they’d had an opportunity to analyze him, assess the effectiveness of their transformation, and test his new abilities. The soldier must know that Steve had _started_ a pursuit, but that he’d continued it, at high speeds, in frozen water, for hours?

If Steve kept his head down, the soldier need never know he was there.

Ahead of them, in the lowering darkness, a black mass cut into the ocean.

_Land?_

The motorboat slowed, circled, and Steve followed suit as the skiff navigated around the obstruction. Closer they approached, and closer still, until a clunk of metal on metal, made dull beneath the waves, spoke to the small boat pulling alongside the mass.

Not land.

A ship.

An _enormous_ ship.

_A Hydra ship?_

_It must be._

_This is bigger than I can deal with alone, especially hurt and tired_.

Muted sounds spoke to something happening, though Steve didn’t stay to learn what. Diving, Steve swam away from the ship until darkness obscured it, then surfaced, hoping that whoever was aboard, their vision was inferior to his. Navy twilight painted the horizon, highlighting the metallic curves of the ship and providing Steve’s enhanced sight a fair view. Winches drew the skiff up, up, up, the steep gray sides, the man standing in the skiff staring toward the deck, a black mass darker than the night. The deck was a flat platform, immense, and at least a half-dozen bulky planes were parked aboard.

Hydra didn’t have a ship.

Hydra had an _aircraft carrier_.

_Shit._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts Saturday, June 17th, 2017.
> 
> eta: note that I've been going over my outline and I've penciled in how many chapters I think I'm going to end up with, but that is subject to change. First draft is almost at 100k words and I'm not particularly close to finishing, and I've got almost 16 full chapters written. I still expect to finish by the July 4th deadline. Thanks for reading, everyone! <3


	9. Chapter 9

Carlos didn’t have a ship.

Carlos had a _frigate_.

Anchored about a mile off shore, chunks of ice continually clanging off the sides loudly enough that Steve could hear them on land, the decks of the Destroyer that Carlos had summoned swarmed with cheering men. The sound was distant but audible, the sailors so enthused that some climbed the deck cabin, mounted the conning tower, tangled themselves in the lines, waving their arms and hats and even coats despite the cold. Two brave souls even straddled the cannon mounted in the bow, one nearly falling overboard as they tried to balance on the muzzle.

Steve wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting, but it wasn’t a Hunt-Class destroyer, repurposed from British use into…whatever it now was. Mottled gray paint covered over the old dazzle camouflage and the old ship’s number was visible as an outline.

“It’s a pirate,” said Lydia, shaking her head. “They found some scuppered British ship and co-opted it.”

“Are you complaining?” asked Steve.

“What? No, of course not! That ship is the most beautiful thing I’ve seen in three years.” She shot him a grin. “We don’t complain in Canada, we leave that to you American whiners.”

“I thought ‘stiff upper lip’ was a Britishism.”

“Keep calm and carry on,” Lydia agreed, rolling her eyes.

_Yeah, that’s easy for people on the home front to say, but for someone who’s been through what Lydia and the other former prisoners have been through…_

Lydia had been captured in 1942 and spent three years as a guinea pig for every chemical Hydra synthesized for use on other prisoners.

Alison had been captured in 1944 and, over the course of hundreds of sessions, had had her skin flayed off inch by inch to make grafts for other victims.

Takumi – Steve _still_ wasn’t sure if that was a last name or a first name – had been captured during the Japanese invasion of Manchuria and been repeatedly frozen and unfrozen to test the limits of human temperature tolerance.

Sayaana’s prosthetic leg, a mirror to the metal arm of the soldier with the terrible aim, complete with painted Communist star, choked up whenever she tried to talk about what had been done to her since she’d been taken from her people, the Yakuts.

And Carlos…well, apparently Carlos had been a pirate, but he never said a word about what tortures he’d been subjected to.

No one asked what had been done to Steve. There were no missing his tentacles. At least he’d been correct in his gamble that the one he’d torn off would grow back. He wasn’t sure if limb regeneration was a product of his own super-human healing abilities or some new trait brought about by the mingling of the octopus-squid-kraken-whatever essence with his own, but he wasn’t about to rip his arm off to test his new limits.

Between them, they spoke 21 languages, had served in seven different militaries, and had been Hydra prisoners for a combined 25 years.

Steve had thought the Howling Commandos the least likely alliance he’d ever participate in, the most motley group of friends he’d ever make. He’d had no idea what his future held.

 _I should give up thinking I ever have more than a minimal idea what’s coming down the line, or how I’ll feel about it. I thought the super serum would be life changing in the best possible way, but it definitely had its downsides; being a USO side show was a nightmare, knowing how much I_ can’t _do despite my new abilities is infuriating, getting caught up in politics is annoying, on and on. And if someone had told me in 1939 that I’d embrace having my legs cut off and having tentacles soldered on in their place, I’d have said they were crazy._

_My life is damn crazy._

_But all things considered, it’s not bad._

It took nearly an hour for an outboat to pick through the ice along the coast and come ashore. With November freezing and chilling toward December, the cove beside the Hydra base froze over more every day. In the depths of winter, Steve suspected they’d be able to walk along the thick ice to where the ship was moored, but currently the floes were at an awkward in-between stage, solid enough to be a major obstruction, but still drifting and colliding instead of freezing together to make a larger mass. Even as good as Steve’s balance now was, he’d taken a couple dunks into the depths trying to slide across the surface ice as pieces he’d thought solid flipped or sank beneath him.

Sayaana, Takumi and Alison were in the base, helping the other prisoners prepare for their evacuation. The past weeks had been harder than Steve had expected, much harder on his fellows. Two prisoners had committed suicide, both _after_ they’d been told they’d be able to go home. A third had stood on the edge of the ocean and it had taken Steve an hour to talk him out of hurling himself into the depths. The equipment supporting the disembodied head had failed, and when Steve had resolved to _force_ the Hydra scientists to fix it, Sayaana had translated the head’s plea to be allowed to pass. As much as Steve hated to give up on anyone, he’d accepted there was scant hope for the poor man and acceded to his wishes. And when it seemed the worst had past, one of the brainwash victims woke up unexpectedly – apparently Steve wasn’t the only one whose body reacted weirdly to standard sedatives – and killed another prisoner before Steve killed them.

He regretted that.

The safety of all outweighed the safety of one.

_…and if it had been the man with the metal arm?_

Steve pushed the thought away. The man with the metal arm had so far only threatened Steve, not particularly effectively. There was something _there_ , something Steve couldn’t fathom, and he didn’t want to take permanent steps against the man until he knew _what_.

 _There’s no logical explanation why he missed me so many times. I was sitting on the roof, back exposed, and he couldn’t have hit my side somewhere less damaging had he_ tried _._

_I think that shot and all the subsequent misses were intentional._

_Sure, it_ could _be because he was attempting to capture me instead of kill me._

_And yet…I don’t think that’s it._

Being unsure _why_ Steve thought the soldier had pulled his punches was driving Steve crazy.

Seeing the surviving prisoners and the captured Hydra devotees off proved the work of an entire day, as short as the daylight hours had grown. They didn’t have enough winterized gear to go around, and the outboat from the frigate was too small to hold everyone, so the survivors and Hydra prisoners were transported in groups of six, bundled up tight, escorted down into the hold, stripped of their outwear, and the clothing returned for the next group. Carlos went aboard with the first group and Steve had smiled to see his friend greeted by enthusiastic cheers.

All of the sailors stared at Steve.

His fellow prisoners never stared at him.

_Is it weird that I didn’t feel weird about myself until they gawked at me? Should I be more troubled by my body, by what Hydra did to me?_

When he’d been small, sickly, weak, Steve had been invisible unless he _forced_ other people to see him. He had to stand up taller, meet everyone’s gaze, and, most importantly, he’d had to be _morally_ the biggest man in the room since he couldn’t be _physically_ the biggest man in the room. With the serum, that had changed. Overnight, Steve became someone who drew every eye, whether it was his brief stint in New York City immediately afterwards when most women and even some men ogled him, or his months doing USO fund raisers when crowds ranged from appreciate to derisive, or his time being held up as a Hero’s Hero while helping overthrow Hitler and the Nazis. The last had bothered him the most, had led to _Rogers_ and the need to _become_ his image, even as the public largely ignored the contributions of the hundreds of people whose constant efforts behind the scenes were essential to the success of the Howling Commandos missions.

It had been a _lot_ of pressure.

Life in Siberia was…strangely free of pressure. The others – _Winter Warriors? The Siberian Squad? We need a name!_ – looked to him for leadership, which he’d thought reasonable until he learned more about them and their own respective ranks and positions in the militaries in which they’d served. Nearly everyone who’d stayed to help Steve was technically qualified to lead; some far more so than he. Nonetheless, taking charge of the Siberian Warriors...the Ice Floe Defenders...maybe they’d take a vote...being in charge didn’t feel like a strain in the same way that serving the SSR and the Allies had.

 _Of course it doesn’t. The problem had never been leadership – I wasn’t_ actually _a leader, anyway, the Howling Commandos made decisions by committee, guided by Peggy, Stark, Philips and the SSR – the problem was maintaining my public persona as_ The All-American Alpha Male Hero _. That was never who I was, never who I am, never who I wanted to be, but I felt like I had to be that, had to become that, in order to meet the expectations of the country and the world._

_I had to be Captain Rogers._

_I had to…_

“Cap’n?” Alison interrupted Steve’s musings and he frowned, surprised. He’d watched the coastline for so long that, even though the ship was there and the prisoners debarking, he couldn’t figure out where else to focus his attention.

_The man with the metal arm came from the sea, too...the Hydra aircraft carrier is out to see...rescue come from the ocean, but so does danger. We’re unlikely to be attacked from the landward side anytime this side of April, but by sea?_

_All eyes northward..._

“Are you alright?” Alison’s words cut through his thoughts. Steve jerked his gaze away and turned to her, squinting against the glare of sunset. Bundled up, he could scarce make out her features, her face round despite the emaciation of her long-imprisoned body, ridges suggesting the plumpness of her cheeks when she was healthy. A few loose strands of blonde hair made a frizzy halo where they escaped from beneath her hood.

_If I save even one person..._

“Of course!” Steve laughed, pushing his concerns away. “I’m always alright!”

“Liar,” said Alison, rolling her eyes. “And worse at it even than my ex. And that’s saying something, she was one _hell_ of a bad liar.”

_She?_

_Who says that?_

_Who_ admits _that?_

_Especially to a stranger?_

_Then again…_

_...what’s she got left to lose?_

_What do any of us have left to lose?_

Stared at by the sailors, Steve had felt a quaver of the need to hide, to be ashamed, to protect himself from exposure. The feeling was depressingly familiar, from years of what he’d thought unrequited pining for Bucky, from further years of having to pretend in public, every minute, every day, that Steve and Bucky weren’t lovers, weren’t in love.

With his fellow former prisoners, his fellow riders on the Freedom Train – _no, definitely not that one, way too many historical overtones that suggest things that aren’t true_ – there was no judgment, no condemnation.

Acceptance had been what drew him to Peggy, and Stark, and his fellow Howling Commandos. Heck, even _Philips_ had mostly let Steve be himself, though no one had told the Colonel about Bucky and Steve’s…unusual…relationship.

A finger tapped on his forehead and Steve blinked, eyes crossing in a vain attempt to focus. “You sure are on about _something_. Spill it!”

“You don’t think I’m…” _Am I weird?_ Steve shook his head, making a gesture with both hands and six of his tentacles. He hadn’t _meant_ to do that. He had to work on his control, _had to_.

_It’s going to be a long winter. I’ll have time._

“Rogers, I have terrible news for you,” she said, grin hidden behind a scarf but obvious from the mischievous gleam in her eyes. “It’s...it’s bad...oh, man...” She took a deep breath. “I hate to break it to you…but...you’re a squid.”

“Being a squid is pretty awesome,” he said, smiling back, then his expression fell. “But I guess thinking that is weird, too.”

“Didn’t take you for the sort to go maudlin.” She laughed. “I’ve known you, what, three weeks now? I think I’ve got your character down pretty pat.”

“Uh oh…” Steve laughed along with her. “Dare I ask?”

“It’s easy enough,” she replied with a shrug, expression suddenly serious. “Hate to break it to ya, but not only are you a squid, you’re also an open book. You’re the kind of guy that I can casually tell about my ex-girlfriend, and you won’t even bat an eyelash. And yeah, that makes you _damn_ weird, but it makes you my kinda weird and I don’t need to know more ‘bout you than that.”

Steve hesitated, then said with attempted casualness, “Can’t fault a gal for a gal pal, when a guy has had a guy pal.”

Alison’s eyes popped and then she broke into a grin. “Ho. Ly. Shit. _You’re_ a fag? Captain America, America’s darling, the one all the ‘real girls’ want a pinup of, _you’re_ riding stallion?”

In a lot of contexts, the questions would have made him uncomfortable, but Alison was so genuine and unaffected that Steve couldn’t help but grin along and take the question in the spirit she clearly intended it.

“You’ve seen footage of the Howling Commandos?” She nodded. “Bucky Barnes.” His heart ached, but he _refused_ to regret how much he’d loved Bucky just because Bucky had died. What time they’d had together had been fabulous, and Steve cherished it. To not speak of it, to act like it hadn’t happened, simply because it hurt, would be to deny the impact Bucky had on Steve’s life, would be to deny _Bucky_.

Steve could never deny Bucky _anything_.

Alison crowed amazement and delight, broke into hysterical laughter, and doubled over, her breath fogging in the cold air. Water lapped at the rocks beneath their feet, tide coming in and carrying chunks of ice with it. Sunset shone misty over the horizon, painting the waves brilliant colors, and the outboat rowed toward shore, loudly clunking against ice floes every few minutes. Alison’s amusement carried like a warm spring breeze over the frozen tundra, lifting Steve’s spirits, pushing away his doubts.

_If the outside world thinks I’m weird...well, I’m here, I’m a squid, I’m a fag, and I’m not going away. They’re going to have to get used to me._

“I’m just…” Alison gasped, guffawed, clutched her sides, tried again. “…I’m just imagining…all the…all the wet dreams you just _ruined_ …oh my God, that’s incredible…and he’s _hot_ , you lucky sonuvabitch!” She whacked him the arm with her thick-gloved hand, the fabric rough against his skin. The cold was starting to get to him, finally, or maybe it was the dryness as the wind burned and scoured over his bare tentacles and chest. “Or…heck…how many wet dreams you just _made_! You two? Hot _damn_!” Her laughter faded abruptly. Meeting his gaze, she blinked tears from her eyes. “Have you managed to get in touch with him? Does he know you’re okay? Is he cool with…?” Her gesture encompassed Steve’s gills, his nudity, the webbing that had started to form between his fingers, and of course his tentacles. Steve’s heart ached worse, tightness and grief like a vise around his chest.

Alison had been captured in 1944. Of course she didn’t know. She didn’t know _anything_ about 1945 that Steve hadn’t told her.

“He’s dead,” said Steve quietly, staring at the approaching boat. One of the sailors swore at a chunk of ice that had adhered to his oar and tears stung Steve’s eyes.

_Keep it together, Rogers._

_Why? Why have I never mourned for Bucky? Why have I never let myself cry for him,_ really _feel how much it hurts that he’s gone?_

_Because I still can’t believe that Bucky is dead._

_Because_ Captain Rogers _doesn’t cry._

_Horse shit._

Alison was talking, but Steve tuned it out. The sympathy in her voice and the downcast turn of her eyes said everything he needed to know.

The boat scraped against ice and rocks on the shore and Carlos gave Steve a jaunty wave. Freedom had done Carlos good: he’d put on weight, shaved, his skin looked better, and he smiled constantly. His delight was never more evident than now, as he exchanged shoulder pats and hugs and gruff words in Spanish with his crewmates. The bottom of boat scraped against stone, Carlos gave a jaunty wave to his friends, and he hopped out, shallow waves lapping around his waterproof boots.

“Stay!” Carlos said with a proud grin revealing uneven, yellowed teeth. “They go.” Carlos gestured toward the frigate, in case his meaning wasn’t clear, then added, “Needed…regreso. Go more.”

“¿Volverán si es necessario?” Alison asked, her southern accent ludicrous around the foreign words.

“Sí,” Carlos confirmed, grinning widely. Hefting a big bag over his shoulder, he gave Alison a jovial smack on the arm and walked back toward the complex.

“He’ll ask the ship to come back if we need help,” translated Alison.

“I didn’t hear ‘el barco’ in _any_ of that,” Steve objected. Relief eased the lingering pain of grief. Yes, Bucky deserved that Steve mourn him, _truly_ mourn him, but while he lived in a place where his tears would freeze on his cheeks, while surrounded by enemies and lost on foreign shores was _not_ the moment to surrender to those feelings.

There’d be time for Steve to mourn when this mission was done, when Hydra was done.

_Or I’ll be dead, and he and I can be reunited in hell._

“No, he literally said, ‘they’ll return if necessary,’” said Alison dryly. “Sorry, I’ll try to keep my _creative license_ out of future translations.”

_Sunny and cheerful as always, Rogers. Thanks for that._

Using two oars, the crew of the outboat shoved off from shore. One made a sign toward Steve that he’d seen once or twice from European peasants – Peggy had told him it was meant to ward off evil. Steve sighed.

“You know, if you wanted to go home none of us would blame you,” Alison suggested. Steve turned to her; she stared at him thoughtfully.

“That’s not it,” said Steve with a sigh. “I just…” Even in the quiet of his own mind Steve couldn’t finish the thought. What he wanted, what he hoped, what he wished had and hadn’t happened, was contradictory. _If only none of this had happened_ butted up against how much _good_ Steve had been able to do before he took the serum, after he took the serum, since he got his tentacles. Short of somehow preventing the war from ever happening, preventing Hitler from ever assuming power, heck, preventing Franz Ferdinand from ever being assassinated before Steve was even born, Steve could scarce have done more. He’d not ask to be spared personal suffering in exchange for the far greater suffering of so many innocent people that he’d been able to prevent.

“Come on, let’s get back inside,” she said, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Even you get cold.”

“Do not,” he muttered.

“Your nipples say otherwise.” Alison chuckled and Steve squawked embarrassment and as quickly as it had come, the tension broke.

“Thanks, Alison,” said Steve, smiling. “That was…helpful.”

“Anytime, Cap,” she replied, “except not really, cause I’m not so hot at this ‘feelings’ stuff.”

“That’s fair,” Steve said. “I’ll try not to burden you with my emotional neediness.” She managed a rueful laugh. “One favor?”

“Sure thing,” she said breezily, holding the door to the bunker open for him.

“Call me Steve?” he asked, his voice more plaintive than he’d intended it to be.

_Captain Rogers is…not someone I wish to be anymore, I think. No more public performance. I’m Steve or I’m no one, just as Dr. Erskine wanted, just as Peggy and Bucky wanted, just as all my friends have wanted. I was the only one who kept telling myself I had to be more than a man, image-wise, once I became more than a man physically._

“I think I can manage that,” said Alison. The door slammed shut behind her, plunging them into the relative gloom of the bunker’s hallway. “In exchange – I got one question for ya.”

“Shoot.”

“So, Lydia…” Alison gave him a suggestive eyebrow waggle.

“Oh man...I have got _no_ lesbian radar, Alison, I’m sorry!”

“Knew you couldn’t be perfect,” she sighed overdramatically. “Guess I’ll have to go about this the hard way...” Steve quirked his head in a silent question as she pulled the door shut behind Carlos. It clanged, and she rammed the deadlock home. “I’m going to have to _ask_ her.”

“Communication,” said Steve, nodding sagely. “It’s the worst.”

“Sí,” Carlos echoed with another wise nod.

All three broke into laughter that echoed in the vast storage area of the base.

Steve absolutely _did not_ regret the choices that had brought him to this moment.

* * *

Steve hissed out a pained breath.

_I have never felt more pathetic than right now…_

Carlos, lip caught between his teeth, poked the needle into Steve’s skin again, again, again, spreading the black ink over and _into_ his shoulder. When Carlos had proposed a tattoo to cover the scarring left by the acid, Steve had thought it a _fantastic_ idea. Now that it was happening? He wasn’t so sure. Every pinprick triggered unpleasant memories of Hydra testing him, torturing him, plying him with chemicals, stabbing him in his thighs, his belly, his shoulders, his chest, his neck, everywhere, in their vain efforts to effectively keep him sedated.

_Carlos isn’t doing this to hurt me. This was my idea. I suggested this. I’m okay with this. Carlos is my friend. He won’t hurt me. He’ll stop if I ask him._

The litany made Steve feel a fool, but it kept him calm, so he repeated it, repeated it, until the pain of the needle stabbing him faded, replaced with a vague euphoria.

A couple score pinpricks later, Carlos stopped, used a rag to smear away the excess ink and trickles of blood, and revealed the fraction of a square inch he’d now rendered in permanent black.

This was going to take _forever_.

Gritting his teeth, silently repeating his mantra, Steve waved Carlos to continue.

Line by line, shape by shape, the tattoo took form beneath Carlos’ skilled hands. The equipment and dye for doing this had been the primary contents of the duffel bag he’d brought back from his ship. He’d explained, talking so fast that Alison struggled to keep up, that he wanted to give Steve a gift and had an idea. Point out Steve’s acid-burned arm, he’d sketched out abstract whirls and stylized tentacles, and Steve had agreed.

The tattoo was perfect.

An hour in, the part on Steve’s neck done, Carlos took a break. He took another at two hours, another at three. The pattern slowly formed, across Steve’s shoulder, down his arm, the decorative whorls and lines and blackened spaces mirroring his injuries, masking where the skin was most damaged. Normally, Carlos had explained, he wouldn’t try to do such an extensive tattoo in one sitting, or even in two, but given Steve’s healing abilities, Carlos saw no reason not to push on. Sure enough, by the time Carlos had finished Steve’s bicep, the section on his shoulder looked as healed as if it had been done weeks before, and blood flaked away to reveal skin unblemished save by ink every time Carlos swiped his washcloth over Steve’s flesh to clean the excess .

“I want one,” breathed Alison, watching in awe as the disparate parts came together into a remarkably cohesive, simple, lovely whole. “More than one. Like…like all over here.” She put a hand to the opposite shoulder, traced down her arm and across her torso. Whereas Steve was only scarred over his arm, Alison’s scars extended all over her body. “Carlos, ¿me próxima?”

“Sí, sí,” Carlos agreed amiably. “Mañana.”

“What are you thinking of getting?” Steve asked. The pain was less immediate, almost like the tattoo was being done on someone else, but every individual stab _still_ hurt, and still triggered his nerves.

“One of those Hydra logos, except all limp and dead with a harpoon stuck through the skull,” she said dreamily. “On my back? Or I could—”

“Steve,” Lydia interrupted. They all called him Steve now, no more of _Captain Rogers_ nonsense. Steve was one among _equals_. Thank God. “Radio for you.”

“Crap,” he muttered. “Carlos – muchos gracias. More later? Uh…¿mas…ahora?” Carlos blinked confusion at him, taking the needle away as Steve rose.

“Go, go, I’ll explain,” laughed Alison. Steve hurried after Lydia, poking at his healed, inked skin idly with a tentacle. Steve had heard from some navy types he’d met that tattoos were a bad idea, because the ink faded over time, because employers frowned on them, because salt water and sunlight dulled them with time.

The ink felt like it had _fused_ with his skin.

Steve doubted he had to worry about the tattoo becoming worn with age.

_And what about the rest of me? How long can this body live, now?_

Sliding into the chair before the radio, Steve took the receiver from Takumi and pushed the disturbing thought from his mind.

“Hey, Peggy,” he said.

“Steve.” Every time they spoke, the same relieved note lightened her voice, as if she still couldn’t quite believe he was alive, couldn’t quite believe he’d answer when she’d call. God, he owed her a lifetime of apologies.

There was a moment’s dead air.

“So, we—”

“The—”

They both cut off.

“You go first,” Steve said.

“No, it’s not urgent – do share,” she countered.

“Are we really going to spend the next ten minutes arguing about which of us should go first?” Steve chuckled, rolling his eyes.

“Of course not, unless you persist in trying to be a _gentleman_ about something that need never have had gender enter into it,” Peggy replied primly.

“ _You_ brought gender into it!” spluttered Steve. “I never said a _word_ about gentlemanliness, I just wanted to know what—”

“And _now_ which of us is wasting time? Oh, right, still you!” Flippant, a smile evident in her voice, Peggy sounded delighted and Steve couldn’t help but laugh along with her. “Spill it, Steve.”

Beside him, Takumi adjusted the transmission equipment. They were still working out the function of much of the experimental technology stashed about the Hydra base, but this one they had down. They had no name for the whirring device that attached to the radio transmitter, but it scrambled radio signals and, based on the testing they’d done with Falsworth and Peggy, seemed to ensure that no one could intercept their communication. Even Takumi, who knew more about radio and electromagnetic radiation than any of them, couldn’t figure out _why_ it worked, but Steve was glad it did, because it meant they could have conversations with at least the hope of keeping their plans a secret from Hydra, and they were spared the added complication of attempting to work out a code on the fly.

“Alison and Takumi have been going through the ordnance we seized when we took the base.” Steve took on a mock-business-like tone, and Peggy’s laugh tinkled musically as he talked. “The only cannon here is a no-go. The barrel rusted out – as far as we can tell maybe a year ago someone left a shell in it and some water got in and no one bothered to check so it’s toast. The locomotive took some damage when we broke in but is mostly intact. We know for certain there’s a Hydra ship off the coast to the northeast – I’ve been working on pinpointing the exact location but with the equipment we have it’s tough. Odds are there’s also another Hydra facility farther down the rail line. On the one hand, the element of surprise is gone. Hydra knows we’re here, knows _I’m_ here, probably knows about Carlos’ ship, and might know that I know about the ship _they’re_ using. On the other hand…so here’s our thinking.

“Hydra’s gotta be wondering our next step – Reinhardt, or whoever is in charge, is trying to figure out what we’re up to and why we didn’t all vamoose when we had the chance. Their ship is the vulnerable spot, even during the winter, which means they’ll be expecting an attack there. They _won’t_ be expecting an attack down the railway.”

“Right…” Peggy drew the word out. “Because aren’t the tracks buried under two feet of snow?”

“More like four feet now,” Steve conceded. “It snowed again last night. That’s where the ordnance comes in. My crew thinks they can rig something up to clear the tracks as we go. It’d be slow going – Hydra’ll see us before we get close, unless they’re far enough south that we find clear steel before we got there – but at most they’d only have a few hours to mobilize.”

“Steve, that sounds like a _terrible_ idea,” sighed Peggy.

“I know, doesn’t it?” Steve couldn’t quash his enthusiasm. It _did_ sound like a terrible idea, but he was 90% sure…okay, maybe 85%...75%...that it would _work_. Bonus, _because_ it was a terrible idea, surely the oh-so-sensible ‘great minds’ at Hydra would never expect them to try.

“You’re going to do it anyway, aren’t you.”

“Bet your bottom dollar!”

“Well, then, good luck, and please try to get in touch afterwards and assure me you’re not dead.” Her tone was half exasperated, half caring, and Steve’s heart ached. If he’d taken the ship back to civilization with the other prisoners, he could be beside her, assuaging her fears, instead of 2,000 miles away.

But how many people would suffer if Steve made that choice?

There wasn’t any choice, not really.

 _No. Don’t think that way. There’s always a choice. It doesn’t_ have _to be me. If I really wanted to leave…_

 _…I’d never be able to look myself in the mirror again. I shouldn’t delude myself into the belief that I’ve got another option here. The only reason this hasn’t_ already _devolved into a major international incident with potentially world-shattering implications, so close on the heels of a decade plus of warfare that’s_ already _shattered the world, is that myself and the others were Hydra prisoners. Either Stalin is allowing Hydra in intentionally, or he’s being duped as well, but either way, he can’t acknowledge we exist, nor can he confront the other world governments about our presence here, without admitting to his complicity or his being duped._

_No one else has the access we have, the carte blanche we’ve got to sow chaos amidst the enemy. This is the chance of a lifetime, a chance to save thousands or millions of other lives, and even were I dying I’d not make a different choice. What’s one life, weighed against so much potential suffering?_

“Steve?” Peggy asked.

“Yeah – sorry.” He shook his head, shook his thoughts away. “So what’s your news?”

“Two things.” There was an edge of concern in her voice, or maybe wariness. The crackling, muted tone of the radio made mood hard to read. “First, good news, more-or-less. Your friend’s ship arrived at Peterhead, of all places, yester-evening. Should I assume you didn’t _know_ they were pirates in possession of a stolen, formerly sunken, British ship, or was it mere oversight that you didn’t tell me?”

“Aw, drat, Pegs. I could swear I warned you,” he said contritely. “They did us a good turn and asked nothing in exchange. I hope you didn’t have them arrested or anything.”

Peggy snorted. “Your faith in my ability to have _anyone_ arrested is sweet and misplaced. Didn’t I tell you? Things are different now that the wars over. So no, they weren’t arrested. They’re not even in trouble. When Stark realized some…busybodies…in my government were considering incarceration and criminal charges, he wrote Downing Street a sizeable check to pay for the ship.”

“You’re kidding.”

“You know I’m not,” she said with a sigh. “You know how Howard is. Why talk his way out of a situation and risk calling attention to it when he can simply buy his way out? This is a man who solves the ‘I don’t know what I want for dinner’ problem by ordering the entire menu, taking a few bites of each dish, and sharing the rest with the first homeless colony he finds.”

“Did he _really_ do that?”

“ _Four times_ , Steve!” Peggy exclaimed. “My God, the man would be insufferable if he wasn’t such a…such a…such a _puppy dog_. Anyway. That’s beside the point, and I’m running out of time. Your prisoners are in the process of being repatriated, your friend’s pirates are safe to resume wreaking havoc across the seven seas, and the files you sent are in the hands of MI-6, who are currently fending off attempts by OSS – it has a new name now but who can remember all the US Government alphabet soup? – to gain access to the intelligence. They’re all a little murky on where it came from but it’s so obviously legitimate, they’re not questioning it, at least not yet. Stark, Philips and Dugan are running interference.”

“That all sounds as good as we could have hoped for,” said Steve. “But I take it there’s bad news, too?”

“Yes,” she said. “Dernier is dead.”

“ _What_?” Steve exclaimed. “How?”

“Assassinated,” she replied. “He’d been in France trying to convince the Provisional Government to support and financially back Dugan’s efforts to open a new SSR base on the mainland. From what I’d gathered, he was meeting with exactly zero success – de Gaulle had him in a line of _suitors_ , somewhere _behind_ the general suggesting that rebuilding the Maginot Line would ensure France’s future safety. However, perhaps I’d misunderstood his utter unimportance, because _someone_ thought he was a threat. Three witnesses were also killed but there was one survivor, a child, which given the brutality of the attack is shocking. Falsworth managed to get a copy of the child’s statement, and I immediately thought you should know.”

“Why?”

“Because the man responsible had a communist star painted in red on his shoulder,” Peggy replied. A chill ran down Steve’s back, shivered to the extremity of each tentacle. “The Soviet government has disavowed all knowledge of the attack, citing rogue agencies, Nazi operatives, purposeful misdirection to cast suspicion upon them, the usual lies and contradictions. I’d not have suspected anything amiss –Stalin needs a new game if he wants to continue fooling anyway – save what you told me about Sayaana’s leg. Also, there’s a detail that the investigators are discounting. His—”

“His arm was metal?” Steve interrupted, fist clenching. Muscles shifted in his arm, twinging faint pain through his newly tattooed flesh.

“Yes, how did you…?”

“It’s _him_ ,” said Steve. “I’m sure of it. There’s a Hydra operative, a soldier, who attacked me a couple weeks back. Dressed in all black. His left arm was prosthetic, polished, jointed steel with a red star over the shoulder. He wore a mask, had pale eyes, dark hair…does that match the child’s description?”

“Yes,” Peggy breathed. “So _Hydra_ killed Dernier?”

“I’d guess so,” Steve replied. “Warn the others. Everyone will need to be on their guard. And—”

“And another thing! What do you mean you were _attacked_? You didn’t tell me! I—” Peggy huffed a breath. “I mean,” she continued more calmly. “If Hydra has infiltrated your current base of operations, perhaps it is not safe for you to stay there. You and your…team…have done enough, Steve. It’s time to come home.”

“No, it’s not,” said Steve. “We’ve been over this. No one else can do what we’re doing. If Hydra’s agent can infiltrate France and murder Dernier, the imperative to destroy them is even greater. This man – he’s inhumanly strong, inhumanly fast, and impervious to the cold. His metal arm is even stronger; I wasn’t able to damage it.”

“Hydra’s perfect winter soldier,” Peggy breathed.

“Exactly. And Pegs, I think he used to be a prisoner, like us. I think Sayaana’s leg was a test run for giving this guy his arm, that he was held at the same facility I was, that he’s been…manipulated, or hypnotized, or something, into acting on their behalf. I want to save him.”

“Steve—”

“Oh, and he’s a terrible shot,” Steve added as an afterthought.

“No, he’s not.” Peggy spoke so definitively, so immediately, that Steve blinked in shock.

“Huh?”

“He hit Dernier dead through the forehead at 800 yards with what investigators think was a modified Mosin-Nagant M44. Even with a scope, that’s past the limit of their effective range. Further, it was a downpour, that he clearly waited for before beginning. While fleeing, he killed the other victims at range while sprinting. Whoever he is, he’s a crack shot, Steve.”

“Then why’d he miss me so abysmally so many times?” Steve asked blankly.

 _It_ was _on purpose. It must have been. I suspected…but it was so outlandish…but no…_

“Maybe he likes you,” Peggy deadpanned. “Look, Steve…just…promise me you’ll be careful?”

“Pegs…”

“Fine, I know, asking too much,” she sighed. “Alright, how about instead…promise me you’ll take reasonable precautions, and pull out if the situation gets too hot?”

“I promise,” said Steve. He even meant it. He couldn’t bear to make her cry more. “Though I’ll own – I think _heat_ is the last thing we have to worry about.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha. Glad you’re preparing for your future as a comedian. You were made for the stage, Rogers.”

“I love you, Peggy.”

She sighed again. “I love you too, Steve. Same time, three days?”

“Deal – talk to you then. And, uh – try not to get shot by the perfect winter soldier, okay? I like your lovely brains right where they belong, inside that gorgeous head.”

“Sweet talker.”

“Only for you.”

“And Bucky?”

“Only for you and Bucky.”

“Good bye, Steve.”

Hanging up, Steve slumped back in his chair, thinking hard.

He still hadn’t told Peggy about his tentacles.

Takumi flicked a few switches and stared at Steve, stared through him.

“Koibito?” Takumi asked.

“God, I don’t even know any more…” Steve mumbled in English. Takumi looked a question at him, and Steve shook his head. “Arigato, Takumi. Let’s go look at those bombs.”

Takumi grinned.

They had too much work to do for Steve to dwell on his interpersonal problems.

_And what about the winter soldier? Do I have time to dwell on him?_

_I probably don’t._

_But I’d better find the time._

_He’ll be back._

The conviction settled deep in Steve’s bones. Whatever had happened between him and the strange man, whatever had happened to Dernier in France, the soldier and his lousy aim would return.

_I just have to be ready this time._

_I can’t count on him to keep missing._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the random couple words of Japanese...that's the only language involved in all this I actually SPEAK so I couldn't resist. "Koibito" means "Lover" and "arigato" means "thank you." :)
> 
> Next chapter posts Monday, June 19th, 2017.


	10. Chapter 10

After everything he’d experienced, Steve knew it was ridiculous that he felt that tweezers digging into battered flesh was one of the least pleasant sensations. Even as his body worked to heal his latest bullet wound, Margaret – their newest ‘recruit,’ a British nurse who now sported gills and a mechanical eye that saw in infrared – tore him open anew to dig the bullet out. Having a bullet healed into his side hurt worse than having tweezers pick apart his healing muscle sinew by sinew.

“That man with the arm – what do you call him?”

“Winter Soldier,” Steve replied through gritted teeth.

“Your Winter Soldier is a damned good shot,” Margaret said. Her words were muffled by the threaded needle clenched between her teeth. No matter how Steve insisted he didn’t need stitching up, not any more, Margaret had insisted on preparing the materials and caring for him as if he was any regular GI Joe injured in the midst of battle.

_When she knows me better, she’ll stop bothering._

Catching the glint in her eye, Steve managed a wan smile.

 _Scratch that. Anyone who survived what she’s been through and can still crack jokes is someone I will_ never _defeat in a battle of wills_.

“He’s not _my_ Winter Soldier,” corrected Steve. “And he’s a terrible shot.”

_Keep repeating that to yourself, Rogers, but we both know it’s not true._

“He shot you square in the back, while you were moving, without hitting a single major organ,” Margaret said. “Do you know how hard that is?”

“Yeah,” Steve acknowledge begrudgingly. “I’m a damn good shot and I don’t think _I_ could do it.”

_And even if I pulled it off once…_

The Winter Soldier had shot Steve in the exact same spot _four times_ over the course of five different encounters.

There was exactly, precisely, statistically _zero_ chance that was a coincidence.

 _Okay, not zero, but astronomically small_.

Some pathetic part of Steve’s brain latched onto the distraction offered by a pointless attempt at calculating the odds. Cursing like a sailor under her breath, Margaret gripped the bullet with her tweezers, pulled, and failed to dislodge it from his back. The same pathetic part of Steve’s brain hissed agony as his flesh tore, reknit, and ground against the bullet wedged within him.

 _Not_ pathetic _, Rogers. It’s not pathetic to feel pain when something painful happens. It’s human._

 _No matter what happens to me, no matter what I become, no matter what I’m_ made _to become, I cannot lose the thread of my humanity._

_I will not become the kraken. I will not become a symbol of Hydra._

_I am Captain America, Captain Rogers._

_No._

_I am Steve Rogers, son of Sarah and Joe Rogers, from Brooklyn, New York, and I am_ no one’s _symbol._

“All set!” Margaret chirped. The bloody bullet _tinked_ as she dropped it into a tin cup she had on hand to hold the garbage. “You alright there, Cap?”

“Steve,” Steve said, rubbing his forehead. _Every damn time.._. “Please call me Steve.”

* * *

“Your Winter Soldier has done three more assassinations and killed eight more bystanders,” Peggy said.

“He’s not _my_ Winter Soldier,” Steve sighed.

 _Isn’t he though? He keeps seeking me out, keeps following me. How did he even_ get _to that last base if he’s operating from the coast? And why does he go to so much damn trouble just to miss me every damn time?_

“Don’t waste time arguing,” said Peggy crisply. “Report?”

“Yes, ma’am!” Steve couldn’t keep a lopsided grin from his face as he intentionally assumed the obsequious tone he knew drove Peggy nuts in more ways than one.

_…Steve flat on his back, his cock buried in her hot, wet pussy…_

_“Use that pretty mouth on Sergeant Barnes, soldier!”_

_“Yes, ma’am!”_

A tremor of pleasure coursed down each of Steve’s penile tentacles and he quashed it.

_Not even vaguely the moment, Steve!_

_Now, now, we both remember how gratifying_ you _found being ordered around in the bedroom, Rogers…_

“Two days ago we took down our fifth Hydra base. Only one survivor. We tried to capture the subverted prisoners but no dice, they fought to the death.”

“It’s probably for the better,” said Peggy, sighing. “The last few who returned…well, that’s part of my report, I suppose. One of them became psychotic and killed the therapist who was trying to help them, and another committed suicide. The early ones were trouble, but this? I’m struggling to find doctors even willing to speak with them, and facilities willing to house them, they’re so violent.”

“There’s _got_ to be a way to get through to them.” Steve didn’t mean to sound strident but he couldn’t help it. There was an undertone to Peggy’s voice that he didn’t like, though he couldn’t place it.

 _There_ must _be a way to save the Winter Soldier!_

“I appreciate that you want to believe that, Steve, but so far…I’ve seen nothing to support that hope,” Peggy replied.

_Oh, that’s her undertone: reserved, preparing me for what she considers necessary but knows I won’t like._

_She sounded_ exactly _like that when she countered my reasons for returning to the Alps to try to retrieve Bucky’s body._

 _“I know how you feel about him but risking your life to retrieve his corpse won’t make Bucky any less_ dead _, Steve. There comes—_

 “There comes a point when pragmatism must trump idealism and—”

“And you can’t _possibly_ believe we’re at that point already, Pegs,” Steve scoffed. _I’ve heard that from you before, and I gave in last time because then, you were right. But this time?_ “I was held and tortured for six months. We’ve freed people who’ve been captive for as long as a _decade_. They’ve been free for _one month_. Expecting anyone to heal from so much trauma so quickly is ludicrous!”

“ _I_ know that,” Peggy snapped. “But _you_ try convincing MI-6 or the US CIA or _anyone_ that these people are worth helping! They’re mutilated, their minds twisted! Their own families gave them up for dead years ago! Most seem to think that getting their loved ones back like this is worse than never getting them back at all. We’ve got the records you’ve sent, we know what was done to them, but…given how…how _broken_ these people are, how _damaged_ …honestly, no one wants to _bother_!”

“Not even you?” asked Steve through gritted teeth.

Awkward silence gave Steve all the answer he needed.

“Steve…” Peggy sighed.

“Save it, Pegs.” Steve massaged his temple, trying keep a handle on his ire, repeating _let it go_ to himself as if the mantra alone could stave off a fight. “If you don’t want to help, that’s fine. You’ve done plenty. We can figure something else out.”

“That’s not…” Taking a deep breath that whooshed loud through the radio speakers, Peggy sighed. “I hate when you go idealistic on me, Steve. Turning you down is like kicking a puppy.”

“You know, you’ve got the choice to _not_ kick the puppy,” Steve said.

“Steve…you always want to save everyone.” Peggy spoke softly, faux restraint no mask to her seriousness. “But you can’t. The last two batches of former prisoners weren’t _like_ the previous sets, weren’t like _you_. They—”

“You know what, _Agent Carter_? Stow it!” Anger flared hot through Steve. _Stop taking it out on her. It’s not_ her _fault you haven’t admitted you’re half squid. It’s not her fault you haven’t acknowledged how_ damaged _you actually are._ “I get that we both devote a heck of a lot of energy to maintaining the bullshit illusion that these past six months since we took down Schmidt didn’t change us but that’s a damned lie and you know it. Captain Steve Rogers, that guy you knew, that guy I was then? He’s _gone_. I’m not him anymore and to tell you the God’s honest truth I _never want to be_ again.”

_But I don’t think I’m damaged. Just different._

“But—”

“I woke up encased in ice, certain I was going to die, only to be rescued by _Hydra_ ,” Steve continued, implacable no matter how he might want to stop himself. _No, no, abort – I’m not like this, I’m not angry, I don’t take my temper out on others. If I do that I’m no better than…no better…no better than_ them _._ “I was systematically tortured for _months_ and then…and then…”

_Hell. Maybe I do think I’m a little damaged…_

Steve choked on an attempt at a deep breath. He’d not felt his chest tightening, his nerves thrumming, over the burn of his ire. Coughing, he registered the shaking of his hands, the tension binding his muscles, the messy tangle of his tentacles, and he let out an unsteady breath.

Silence reigned.

“I’m sorry,” Steve mumbled.

“Actually, getting yelled at is…kind of refreshing,” Peggy said. She didn’t sound refreshed. She sounded resigned, and exhausted. She always sounded exhausted when they spoke. “Never heard you let go like that, _Captain Rogers_.”

“No…no, Peggy, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean…you don’t deserve to hear that kind of…not from me, not from anyone…” The clench at his throat tightened, bile burning his stomach and esophagus. “Look, I’m…changed. You know how – some of the folks we sent home, they were…modified? So was I – so _am_ I. If you saw me now, I don’t know if you’d even recognize me.”

_Gills slit in my throat._

_Webbing formed along my ears, beneath my armpits, between my fingers._

_Three sets of eyelids that protect my vision in different conditions._

_A massive tattoo spread over my shoulder and arm._

_Increasingly gray and blue skin._

_Oh, and one other small detail, just the new-and-improved writhing mass of black and red tentacles, complete with double rows of suckers._

_I got terrible news for you, Peggy._

_I’m a squid._

“Steve,” Peggy breathed, sounding…scandalized, or offended, or hurt, or…or _heart broken_ , God, she sounded sad. “You never said…why didn’t you…God, are you alright? What did they…no. You would have told me if you were comfortable doing so. You are under no obligation, but please believe – no matter what they tried to make you, I _know_ you, Steve Rogers. You’re a good man, a man I…a man I once…” She choked on…a sob? _Damn it, I made her cry again. Way to go, Rogers_. A second tearful sound escaped her, a third, and there were bumps and clatters as she did something about the microphone. _Actually, I think that one’s on you, Steve, you’re the one prone to emotional outbursts, this whole fit of hysterics was your idea…_ She took a deep breath, gathered herself, and said, “Nothing will change how I—”

A muffled male voice interrupted her, her murmured reply indistinct. There was another clatter. “Steve – I’m sorry, Steve, I have to go. But we’ll talk, okay? We’ll talk.”

“Of course we will, Pegs,” said Steve sadly. “And, uh, I love you, too.”

Static was his only answer.

There was no way she’d heard him.

The line had already gone dead.

_Ya know, I’ve thought a lot of shitty things about myself over the years, but I never, ever took myself for a coward before._

_Can’t blame Steve_ or _Rogers for that one. Whatever I was in the past, I wasn’t a pansy._

_And yet…_

Steve quashed the thought.

Hydra had at least one more land base.

Until the mission was done, Steve had bigger things to worry about than his failings as a human being.

_If I can succeed at saving even one more person…_

_…if I can succeed at saving the Winter Soldier_ …

_…maybe those failings won’t loom quite so large as they do now…_

_But I shouldn’t have taken it out on Peggy. She deserves better. From everyone._

* * *

With a furious roar, the Winter Soldier lashed out at Steve. The rifle spun so quickly that it looked a brown and silver blur, a whir accompanying every movement. Steve’s guard was nigh impenetrable, though, his tentacles dancing intercept, avert, deflect, parry. Rage twisted the Soldier’s features, made him appear inhuman as his super abilities and metal arm never had.

“This has to _end_ ,” Steve snapped, biting off each word. He grabbed for the butt of the rifle; it slapped against his hand but the Soldier ripped it free, spun it toward his head. Steve flattened himself to the ground, letting his tentacles glide over the ice, but with how often they’d fought, such tactics no longer took the Soldier by surprise. Spinning so quickly that long strands of dark hair flared about his face, the Soldier grabbed a knife from his belt and brought it down hard on one of Steve’s creeping tentacles, cutting it off.

 _Damn it, not_ again _!_

Steve punched the Soldier in the face.

The Winter Soldier looked, if possible, even _angrier_.

Twisting, rolling, Steve whirled his tentacles in a distracting number of directions, the cut-off one – _that was one of my cocks! Aargh!_ – scattering droplets into the air that froze instantly, falling as brilliant crimson spheres. _Get over it, Steve. It’ll grow back. Keep fighting!_

The Soldier lagged, by a second, by an instant, minutely, the delay so out of character that Steve thought he’d imagined it, didn’t dare take it for granted.

The Winter Soldier didn’t make mistakes.

_Except continually failing to shoot me._

_Maybe._

One tentacle whirled around the Soldier’s wrist, another around a leg, a third around a thigh, a fourth over his waist. Heaving upwards with his other tentacles, Steve lifted them both into the air, slammed them both down into the snow. Spitting, hissing, the Soldier struggled to free himself but now that Steve _finally_ had him grappled, he wouldn’t let go so easily. Powerful fingers dug bruises into Steve’s limbs, but he slid more tentacles into place, binding the Soldier with the thick, powerful parts of his tentacles closest to his body. The Soldier made a choked noise and stopped struggling, sinking into the snow.

Some distractible part of Steve’s mind suggested that, spread-eagle in the snow, black hair and black clothes and metal arm and red star a brilliant colored contrast to a world of white, this would be a perfect moment for the Winter Soldier to make a snow angel.

_Not helping!_

Their eyes met.

Something deep within Steve twanged a familiar note – like acknowledging and recognizing like, two hurt people united sympathetically, at odds yet in harmony.

_This could have been me._

_Doesn’t mean I have to be a damn poet about it._

A silent snarl narrowed the Winter Soldier’s eyes, scrunched the cheeks visible over his mask. The red Hydra symbol rested over his breast, angry and red as a brand. Those eyes, usually hauntingly vacant, stared hatred and disgust at Steve, but didn’t look away. The Soldier could turn away from Steve at any time – Steve hadn’t bound his head, only his arms and legs – and yet…

Steve thought he could drown in that broken, dead gaze.

_How long did it take Hydra to do this to him?_

_More poetry, Steve? The hell? Stop trying to turn this into a romance. It’s not a romance, he’s trying to kill me!_

_Except he’s_ not _!_

“It doesn’t have to be this way,” said Steve, panting with exertion. The words escaped into the frozen air as clouds of smoke. There wasn’t a trace of recognition or understanding on the man’s face. The Soldier never answered Steve’s attempts to communicate. “Can you talk? Can you understand me?” Steve repeated the question in every language he knew, in every language that he’d been able to scrounge up a few words of from the Wrecking Crew.

He hated that name, but he’d been out-voted.

No trace of comprehension brought life to the Soldier’s wrathful expression.

But he didn’t look away.

“I don’t want to hurt you,” Steve said. Speaking seemed pointless, but something in that gaze tore at him and Steve _had_ to fill the emptiness that encompassed both the tundra around them and the desolation of the damaged mind of the man pinned beneath him.

“I don’t want to force you. As I reckon—” _Crap, Alison is rubbing off on me!_ _No, focus, Steve!_ “—you started out just like we did. Whoever you were, Hydra took you and twisted you and hurt you and destroyed you until they forced you into the shape they wanted you to be, just like they tried to force me into this shape.” Not a glimmer of understanding. “You don’t have to be their tool!” Not a trace of recognition. “You can fight this, Soldier, I know you can!” Not the least hint that the Soldier looked at him and saw anything other than a hunk of meat, anything other than an enemy.

No.

The fury was gone from the Soldier’s features. His expression was blank, impassive, emotionless, robotic. Steve grimaced.

_Maybe I should kill him._

_Maybe, if he has any humanity left, he’ll thank me for that._

A tear rimmed one of the Soldier’s eyes, filmed with a mist of ice.

Whatever commonality between them that had twanged against Steve’s heart strings _snapped_.

“Damn,” Steve muttered.

_This is the worst idea you’ve ever had, Steve._

_No. This is the right thing – the_ human _thing to do. If I bring him back with me now, when he doesn’t understand, when he hasn’t had a change of heart, he’ll be no better off than the freed prisoner who killed their doctor, no better off than the poor damaged souls who keep killing themselves. And if we send him back to Europe like this, they’ll let him die because to them he’s not worth the trouble of healing._

Imagining the Winter Soldier hanging himself with his shoelaces, imagining his black uniform soaked with the blood of an innocent doctor, was horrifying.

_And if somehow he survives their indifference and recuperates from the callous treatment of his mind by friend and foe alike, how will he feel realizing that Hydra puppeted him into committing murder? How will the public feel?_

_There’s no place for him in the west._

_Steve, this is_ insane _. He’s assassinated two dozen people, including Dernier. He’s a menace, a danger, and if he has to be put down like a rabid dog, then so be it._

_He’d wouldn’t hesitate to kill me, given half a chance._

_That’s not true. He would, and has, hesitated to kill me, over and over._

_And that’s how I know, I’m absolutely_ sure _, that somewhere in there, he’s still human. He can be saved._

 _I can’t force him to salvation…but I have to do_ something _. We can’t stay out here on the ice in the eternal day of twilight. Even we’ll freeze after any duration in these conditions._

Ignoring his pragmatism, utilitarianism, and essentialism, Steve took a deep breath and made a decision.

_I don’t know what’s right, but I know what I think I should do._

Steve unlatched his tentacles from the Winter Soldier’s limbs and crept away, giving him space, giving him freedom.

For a breathless, endless moment, the Soldier did nothing save lift his head and stare at Steve.

Then he leapt to his feet and bolted for the coast.

Steve didn’t pursue him. This deep into winter, there was scarce daylight, and the twilight lasted a few hours before sinking back into midnight blue. Sinking back on his tentacles, he watched until the Winter Soldier was no more than a speck on the horizon, until he disappeared against the deepening darkness of the night sky.

_He’ll kill again, and when he does, that blood will be on your hands, Steve._

_No. Those he kills are his own burden to bear._

_No. That’s not right either. Hydra. This all traces back to Hydra. The Soldier’s torture, and my indecision, and every life lost, all of it can be laid at Hydra’s feet._

_I will make them pay._

_And I will save the Winter Soldier if it’s the last thing I do._

With a heavy sigh that misted humid air into the still night, Steve turned back toward the Hydra complex they’d seized that day, visible as a glimmer of artificial light low against the ice.

_Life was much simpler when the morality was black and white. The Allies were good. The Nazis were bad. Now…_

_Hydra ruins everything._

_Assholes._

A laugh caught in Steve’s throat, fought against his efforts to repress it, escaped to echo like sunshine over the Siberian landscape. Another laugh, another, another, Steve couldn’t hold them back. His tentacles continued to carry him forward and hilarity pealed from him until tears ran down his face, made a line of frozen beads over his chin.

 _No, Rogers. Things then_ were _complicated, and things now aren’t. This situation is distressingly, depressingly simple._

_Hydra are villains, through and through._

_Those Hydra has twisted are victims._

_I will do everything in my power to rescue their victims and annihilate their adherents._

_Just._

_That._

_Simple._

* * *

Lights flickered on and off, intermittently illuminating banks of terminals festooned with dials, knobs, and gauges. In five Hydra bases overthrown, each with a complement of torture chambers masquerading as laboratories, observation rooms, and interrogation chambers, Steve had seen nothing like this place. The chair in the center of the room, hard metal with clamps and straps meant to hold a prisoner in place, cast ghastly shadows over the room every time the lights winked out. During the war, a mission had brought Steve to a German castle’s torture chamber, complete with iron maiden, but even there Steve had seen nothing so diabolical as the apparatus mounted on the back of the examination chair. Domed, curved, positioned to encompass the head of whatever poor soul was strapped to the gurney, the device was covered in needles and spikes and pincers meant to puncture the skull and pull away the skin and plug the nose and on and on. Steve didn’t want to look, didn’t want to imagine the suffering of the victims, didn’t want to project into a future where it might have been him in that chair screaming, didn’t want to conceive of the purpose of this equipment.

Steve wished he could believe that the machinery served no purpose, that it was meant to inflict meaningless agony, but he knew better. As awful as torture devices were, they at least made sense to Steve, and their existence was both their ends and their means. There was no mystery to the function of a rack. This, though…Hydra’s prominent members were scientists and learned men, depraved and twisted to ignobility, and this room was part of some experiment, some test, existed for a _reason_.

The room was shockingly, depressingly reminiscent of the facility in Brooklyn where Dr. Erskine had administered the serum.

Steve wished he could take pictures. Steve hadn’t a clue what he was looking at, but SSR had staff who’d look at the room and see a plan, see a strategy, see an innovation. They’d yet to find a camera at any base they’d seized, though, and there was no way they could seize the equipment and send it back to Europe for study. Even if they tried, short of being able to precisely reconstruct it there was no guarantee the mysterious room would give up its secrets even to the experts.

_What if this room is linked with Hydra’s prisoner brainwashing? What if it holds the clue to curing the Winter Soldier? What if it’s the only room Hydra has like this? We’ll never know, never learn the truth, never repair the harm done..._

_But there’s nothing we can do to facilitate studying it. The room can’t be moved, and those who might understand it can’t be brought here._

_Besides, it might be completely unrelated. It might used to administer a reproduction serum, or for giving people weird eyes like Margaret’s, or for…no, I don’t even want to think about it. The possibilities are too numerous and too horrid._

“We’re ready, Steve,” said Alison, mercifully interrupting his frustrated thoughts. Only she, Takumi and Sayaana had accompanied him, Alison and Takumi to wire the place to blow, Sayaana to sift through the intelligence, and Steve to defeat the Hydra agents within and incapacitate any surviving prisoners.

They’d given up hope of finding any prisoners who weren’t brainwashed to heck and back.

Even what hopes they did have, of rescuing and maybe someday healing their fellow prisoners, were dashed at this base. There’d only been two prisoners held at the compound. One killed herself when she realized Steve’s strategy was to knock her unconscious. From what Steve had been told afterward, the other had screamed “Heil Hydra” and hurled himself at Sayaana, and she’d had no choice but to shoot him.

“Fine, let’s blow this place,” Steve said, turning in a slow circle in a vain attempt to memorize the details of the chamber. At least he’d be able to describe what he’d seen. Maybe that would be of use to someone, somewhere, sometime.

_Maybe pigs will fly._

Alison nodded and headed out of the room, deliberately not looking at the equipment. Trailing after her, Steve fixed his eyes on her back, let her lead him to the train bunker and their worse-for-wear locomotive. On the plus side, this base had supplied them with a new engine, and they’d been able to hitch what appeared to be a functional howitzer to the back. With luck, the gun would survive the trip back to their home base on the coast. Once emplaced, they’d have one weapon to bring to bear if – when – the Hydra aircraft carrier attacked.

Sayaana cursed, the language unfamiliar but the tone unmistakable, and there was a shuffling thud followed by a cascading pile of folders whooshing into the hallway between him and Alison. Hurrying forward, Steve helped gather them up, trying to keep the documents with the labeled folders they’d escaped from. Sayaana bumped into him as she backed up, gathering material as she went.

“It’s heavy,” she apologized, speaking Russian again.

Nodding, Steve scooped up a pile in a powerful tentacle, darting a second out to use a sucker to catch a photograph that slipped free. “That’s fine, I—”

The lights flickered on.

Fluorescent gleamed off crisp color and stunning detail.

The picture in Steve’s tentacle was of himself.

The pile of folders thunked to the ground beside him.

 “Steve, what—” He interrupted Sayaana by holding the image toward her. Her mouth fell open.

Blood coated Steve’s face in the picture, made a red film over his exposed skin. His eyes had been dug out, leaving the sockets blank and staring, his lips had been cut away from his gums, his teeth had been pulled out, yet despite the mutilation to his features, the image was unmistakably Steve.

_I don’t remember that happening to me._

_Thank fucking God I don’t remember that happening to me._

“Which folder did this come from?” Steve demanded. Sayaana shook her head, and Alison cringed and looked at him sympathetically. “Which _one_?”

“Come on, Steve – we can look through on the train home,” said Alison gently, plucking the photo off his suction cup with a soft _pfft_. “We need to hit the road. Or tracks. You know what I mean.”

Steve’s gaze followed the image until it disappeared behind Alison’s back.

 _But shouldn’t it be disturbing that something that horrible was done to me and I don’t even_ remember _? Was I sedated? Or was I awake and did they find a way to remove the memory? How much control does Hydra have over the minds of those they capture?_

_Have I sat in a room like that one we found, had them work on my mind, had my recollection destroyed?_

_What if all of this, everything I’ve experienced since the day I escaped, is an elaborate ruse, some complex trick to soften me up and make it easier for them to bring me into their thrall? What if it’s a delusion crafted to make me think I’m doing right, think I’m doing good, when in fact I’m acting on Hydra’s behalf?_

_Why else would they keep falling to us so easily?_

_No. No no no no. Don’t give in to paranoia, to suspicion. Sayaana and Alison are my allies. The Wrecking Crew are good people. I am still in control of myself. No matter what I’ve been through, Hydra hasn’t taken that away from me._

_I bet the Winter Soldier tells himself that, too._

_Does he? Does he really?_

_I seriously doubt that. Hydra didn’t break him by convincing him his actions were good and proper, didn’t twist him by subverting whatever moral compass he was born with. Hydra broke him by destroying his individuality, his humanity, his compassion and ability to relate to me and other people as fellow living beings. When I look in his eyes I see an automaton. He lives and breathes but his agency, his control, his intellect has been stolen. A finger puppet has as much free will as the Winter Soldier does._

_Sure, that’s what_ I _see when I look at him…_

_What’s his perception of events?_

“Come on,” Alison repeated. She reached a hand toward him – not the one holding the picture, Steve wasn’t sure if he was relieved or disappointed – but didn’t touch him.

_How on the edge must I seem to her right now?_

For better or for worse, in the months since their capture, in the months since their escape, all of them had seen what someone on the verge of cracking under physical and psychological strain looked like.

Steve had a bad feeling he looked a hell of a lot like that, wan, tense, trembling, eyes wide and haunted, brow beaded with cold sweat.

With a shake of his head and a deliberate blink, Steve forced his anxiety away.

“I’m ready,” he said, voice hardly quavering. _I can’t afford to let it quaver at all. Get it together, Steve_. “I _am_ ready.” He sounded steadier the second time. Alison nodded, Sayaana skirted around him, eying him nervously all the while, and Steve hefted the pile of documents he’d dropped.

_There’s no refuting such absurd doubts. I have to believe my perception of reality, or I’ll go mad._

_No. There’s one way to refute it._

_If I can bring in the Winter Soldier, get through to him, save him, I can_ ask _what Hydra did to him and, if he’s able to answer, have certain proof that I am my own master._

_I will save him._

_I will._

_And maybe, in so doing, I’ll save myself as well._

It was a fragile hope to cling to, but it was enough that Steve was able to force away his paranoia as he joined Sayaana, Takumi and Alison on the train.

Watching the complex explode in a fireball behind him, knowing that equipment-filled torture chamber was melting to slag even as he watched, helped too.

_Enough waiting for him to come to me. Time to beard the lion in his den._

* * *

_Cold, dead eyes stared passionlessly at Steve, not even a blink interrupting the steadiness of the gaze that seemed to more stare through him than at him._

_“It doesn’t have to be this way,” murmured Steve. Reaching out, he brushed the fat, pink tip of one his penile tentacles over the Winter Soldier’s face. A shiver of pleasure tingled up his limb and pooled hot in his gut, distinct from the cold that trailed like monstrous finger tips over his exposed skin._

_Cold – always cold – all the time cold – in the world, in the water, in his flesh, in his belly…_

_In the eyes of the Soldier…_

_“You’re beautiful,” Steve said. He’d scarce let himself have the thought before, staring at the man’s powerful shoulders, his beautiful eyes, his soft hair. Handsome men were a dime a dozen, and sometimes one caught Steve’s fancy briefly, but it was rare for him to think about any one so much more than any other…_

_…so much more than Bucky…_

_The image surrounding Steve flickered, spun, resolved for a moment into an image of Bucky shooting him a cockeyed, cocky grin, then burst apart to show him the Winter Soldier beneath him once more._

_Those lovely, clear eyes blinked up at Steve, warm with emotion, crinkled at the corners as the hidden mouth twisted into a smile._

_Bliss washed through Steve as the hands that had so recently gripped him roughly encompassed him tenderly, each fist wrapping around a dicks. Unthinking, he thrust, thrust, let his tentacles slide against the rough skin of the Winter Soldier’s palm, the oh-so-smooth metal of his other hand._

_“Oh, hell…just like that, just like…”_

_Something hit Steve in the head and he blinked. The image of his lover flickered and reformed twisted with rage, the hands holding his sensitive flesh squeezing so hard that the tentacle pulped and Steve screamed._

_“Steve!”_

_Struggling, Steve tried to win free, but the Soldier wouldn’t let him go, pinning him in place with a malevolent stare. Hard pressure landed on Steve’s shoulder from nowhere – a foot, maybe? I can see both his hands, unless he’s a kraken too of course he’s a kraken Hydra needs a logo a mascot a tentacle a—_

Steve gasped awake, jerking up in his cot. His tentacles were stiff about him, a shield that could scarce protect him but was enough to keep Lydia at bay as she watched him warily from across the room. Pain tweaked across his awareness, the memory of the Winter Soldier crushing his limbs, the reality of tentacles exposed too long to the open air. It was so cold outside that even Steve wasn’t comfortable. While the water protected him from the worst of the exposure, the ocean a steady temperature just above of freezing, the short trip to and from water had been lengthened considerably by ice buildup. Also, he worried what would happen if the base was attacked when he wasn’t there. Not that his Crew couldn’t protect themselves – they absolutely could – but…

_…but if Winter Soldier comes and I don’t see him…_

_You’re obsessed, Steve._

_So’re you, Rogers, so can it._

“Sorry to wake you…” Lydia trailed off, hands raised defensively. With an explosive exhale, Steve forced his tentacles to relax. They collapsed around him, limp, with dull, stinging slaps against the cot and floor. Tension knotted Lydia’s shoulders and she crossed her arms across her chest. “I think I found the folder you were looking for.”

“The one that contained the picture of me injured?” said Steve, shaking away the remnants of the dream and pushing himself out of bed.

“‘Injured,’” Lydia scoffed. “Pleasant winter we’re having ‘round here. White Christmas and everything. We’ll have to offer nog to the next carolers who come by.” Steve shot her a confused moue. “They brutally tortured you, Steve, and they photographed it and kept the photos in a folder and then left them somewhere they _knew_ you’d find them. I know it’s hard to think about but neither understatement nor denial will change that. You’re allowed to be bothered by something so awful. You’re allowed to be scarred.”

“Sure I am, that’s why you’re terrified about waking me up,” countered Steve wryly.

“You were having a nightmare,” Lydia conceded, shifting uncomfortably. Surprising weakness slowed Steve’s movements but he ignored the lassitude and glided to the door of the cell he’d converted into a scant, minimalistic bunk. “You were...oblivious, and in motion, and I’m well aware of how strong you are.”

“I’m sorry if I hurt you.” Quelling a sigh, Steve held the door open for her. Lydia gave him an appraising look, brushed by him, and headed down the hall. Steve hadn’t a clue where she’d found a pair of low heels that fit her feet perfectly, but they clacked on the concrete floor with every step she took.

“You didn’t,” she said with a stern glance back over her shoulder. “When something’s bothering you, who do you talk to?”

“Bucky,” Steve answered automatically, unthinkingly, and he froze, as cold and stiff as if he’d dared spend overnight on exposed to the extreme arctic wind chills. The _rap, rap, rap_ of Lydia’s shoes fractured through Steve like gun shots, each slower than the last, until she stopped and turned to look at him, eyes wide.

“Steve…”

“Nothing…it’s nothing,” said Steve, more harshly than he meant to. “Bucky is dead. Peggy is 2,000 miles away. But it’s nothing. I’m fine. I don’t need to talk to…I don’t need _that kind_ of help, because I’m fine.”

_That’s it, I call bullshit, Rogers._

“You’re not fine,” Lydia replied. “And no one expects you to be fine. Christ, _I’m_ not fine. None of us are _fine_. When I break down crying because I can’t sleep because needles are pricking me everywhere, Alison and Sayaana help, remind me that there aren’t any needles any more. Takumi spends time with Robert. Even Carlos…I’ve caught him a couple times having heartfelt conversations with some woman over the radio.”

Steve’s attempt at a dismissive nod was made unconvincing by the bobble in his balance when he forced himself to resume moving, but he forced his expression to impassivity anyway.

_Great mask, Rogers. What, gonna don a balaclava and pretend to be a murder-robot next?_

_What if the Winter Soldier’s attitude isn’t a mask?_

_What if, underneath this veneer of strength and indifference, we’re both equally dead?_

_God you get maudlin when you have bad dreams, Rogers._

“There’s no one for me to talk to,” muttered Steve, proceeding down the hallway. The longer he went without the clack of Lydia’s heels following him, the more his shoulders bunched up. Heck, even his _waist_ was tense, the spot where all his tentacles merged with his body bizarrely stiff. Steve slowed to a crawl, distracting himself by allowing his suction cups to adhere to the floor, the walls, one even poked at the ceiling. The dusty dry taste of concrete coating his mouth seemed the least he deserved for being a petulant pain in Lydia’s ass.

_Saying I can’t talk to any of the Crew is tantamount to admitting I’m an asshole. There’s no interpretation that doesn’t make me seem a jerk: I’m aloof, I’m apart, I’m arrogant, I don’t trust them…_

_Clack. Clack_.

_Well, at least she’s walking again._

“What about Agent Carter?” Lydia asked at length.

“No,” Steve replied before he could process _why_ the word sprang to his lips. There was a pause in Lydia’s even footfalls, but Steve proceeded down the hall and after a moment she started walking again. “Peggy and I…”

 _I proved Peggy wasn’t the confidant I need the moment Bucky’s name sprang to my lips in place of hers. I never could talk to Peggy the same way. As great as she was – as great as she_ is _– I always had her up on a pedestal. Even when I was confessing to my lifelong shame that I’d never danced with a damn soul in my life, I was still projecting an image that I thought Peggy would find pleasing. Not that I thought I had a chance of appealing to her as a man, not then, but I was indebted to her for her support after I enlisted, grateful for her enthusiasm on my behalf, and yeah, I thought she was gorgeous._

_And after the change, after my injection of pure, 100% scientifically approved, specially formulated vigor and confidence, when I thought maybe she’d look my way and see a man worthy of her affections? Even then, I never felt I could tell her who I really was. As confident as she is, as strong, as much as she’s fought through to succeed…she has been superhuman from the moment I met her, brilliant and daring and determined. A brick wall would get out of her way rather than risk her barreling through it._

_But how much of herself did she sacrifice to become like that? How bullheaded did she need to be? And how much doubt seeped into her mind when she lay alone at night? How much of her considerable strength of character was continually devoted to quelling and refuting that self-negating voice?_

_The couple times I tried to share my own self-negation with her, she had no_ _energy to spare to help. Warding off her own demons took all she had. I asked too much, expecting her to ward off mine as well._

_Bucky, on the other hand…_

A hand on his shoulder startled Steve from his thoughts. He looked up to see Lydia’s sad, tired brown eyes staring into his. “You don’t have to tell _me_ ,” she said gently. “But I wish you’d tell _someone_.”

“Yeah…” Steve sighed. Lydia wasn’t wrong. But there was no one. “Yeah, I’ll work on that. Look, what did you want to show me?”

“Of course.” The sadness vanished from Lydia’s voice, replaced by precision, crispness, order, command. Resuming her stately walk, the only sound was the echo of her heels and the soft swish-swish of Steve’s tentacles brushing against the floor and each other as he moved. At the end of the hall, she turned, crossed the main warehouse area, and headed down the hall of lab rooms, now converted into offices for the Wrecking Crew members to work in. Lydia had seized the biggest office – reasonable, since she’d assumed the position as their administrative head, managing their supplies, coordinating their activities, documenting their missions, masterfully doing all the organization that Steve found tiresome. Pushing open the door, she gestured Steve in.

Her desk, usually tidy, was covered in photographs.

Every single picture was of Steve.

“What is this?” he breathed.

“The contents of a file labeled 03412,” she said. “Presumably, based on the format, a prisoner file.” Her tone had the usual professional ring, but she averted her eyes from the table.

Steve wished he could do the same.

A half dozen pictures of him happy, smiling, exuberant, clothed in his Captain America costume, made a horrifying contrast to the remainder of the images that showed him in various states of dismemberment and disfiguration. Some were horrifically familiar to him, evoking memories that Steve would rather quash: of water flowing through his new-cut gills, of his torso after his legs were hacked off but before his tentacles were sewn in place, of his veins made mottled and red as chemical after chemical was injected into him to course like fire and acid through his veins. He’d not seen himself at any of those moments, but recollections of how the torture had felt shivered through his limbs, trembled down to each suction cup, left him rattled and shaking. Others, he didn’t remember, and would have been happier going to his grave never knowing about. His eyes gouged out. His chest cavity excavated. His dick cut off and stuffed down his throat. Humiliation and agony and brutality had been graven into Steve’s flesh time and time again, in a hundred ways in a hundred images that Steve would never be able to unsee. The horror of each was driven home all the more contrasted with the scarce pictures of him smiling, happy, hale and hearty and _whole_ , as he once was before Hydra carved him into something brand new.

_Select picture 1 or picture 2, Captain Rogers._

_My prisoner number was 05641. These images weren’t meant for me._

_Who is prisoner 03412, and why would images of_ me _be used to break them?_

_Maybe it’s…one of the Commandos? Maybe that’s why Dernier was killed? Or…or maybe Peggy is in on this, and that’s why she’s behaving off? Or…or Stark?_

_Nothing about this makes any sense._

“Based on my examination of the latest batch of records, Hydra left these for us intentionally,” Lydia said. Her voice sounded distorted to him, distant and wrong.

_That makes even less sense. But she did say before, that she thought Hydra meant for us to see this…_

“Huh?” Steve said, feeling tongue tied and dumb. He couldn’t tear his eyes off an image of his eye sockets leaking blood like tears.

“After two months of us doing counter-infiltration, they know _something_ about our MO,” she explained. “They’re not stupid. They know we need information, and would be wise to assume seize any documentation we find when we attack. The contents of the files bears that out – the majority of what we retrieved this time was useless. There were only a handful of prisoner records and nothing about other bases or Hydra members; the bulk of what we took was useless logs of requisitions and purchases, budgets and invoices. Taken with all the other data we’ve acquired, it’s not completely without value, but in comparison to what we were able to take when we seized _this_ base, before they knew we were coming? We learned nothing new with this latest acquisition. But _this_ file, specifically, was among those left. That wasn’t a coincidence. They wanted us, wanted _you_ , to see this.”

“Why?” Steve asked, eyes sliding to the image of him legless. He scarce bled in the image, the base of his spine sticking out of his torn flesh.

Steve shuddered.

_And I was elated at how weightless I felt._

_Geeze._

“If I knew the answer to that…”

Steve forced his gaze toward her in time to see her give a small shrug.

“I’ll figure it out,” muttered Steve.

This file had been kept for someone, and had been shown to him _deliberately_.

Steve _would_ find out why.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts Wednesday, June 21st, 2017.


	11. Chapter 11

Steve watched.

Icebound, the Hydra ship stood sentinel near the Siberian coast, surrounded by floes that had cracked and collided, frozen, cracked again, and been snowed over so many times that the landscape was surreal and alien. Shattered, jagged chunks of ice made sharp teeth that stabbed through the snow cover, and the aircraft carrier rose over all like a fortress, flood lights casting the world in shades of gray and gleams of pristine white.

Steve watched.

Though the scene looked immutable, etched starkly onto the distance-flattened horizon, Steve had observed small changes from day to day. The aircraft were positioned differently on the deck. The guns mounted on the conning tower aimed in different directions. The steel cabling and ropes that served as rigging swayed in the wind, sometimes arrayed one way, sometimes another. The UHF antenna spun in a continual, slow circle; on the quietest nights, Steve could make out its mechanical whirr over the soft sloshing of water and the faint sounds that hinted at life within the vast ship. Rarely, increasingly rarely as the January temperatures dropped to negative thirty degrees and lower, people were silhouetted standing beside the planes, or climbing the ladder alongside the conning tower, or adjusting equipment or, once, painting the hull.

Steve _watched_.

Steve had rushed headlong into his first attack on a Hydra base, and since the Wrecking Crew had joined him, their approach hadn’t varied. They relied on surprise, picking when and where to attack based on the weather and where they’d be least expected. The ship was different. Steve wouldn’t risk his compatriots attacking such a well-held, defensible, impregnable position, and he didn’t think any amount of surprise would be enough for them to take Hydra unawares.

They knew of no more land bases. There might _be_ more, but as Lydia had pointed out, their information sources had dried up in recent attacks as Hydra realized how vulnerable the bunker-style complexes were to the Crew’s aggressive tactics. They’d seized enough information to know that Hydra compartmentalized their data storage and their organizational structure. No one base had information on all their other bases. No one collection of files reported on every ‘subject.’ What they learned was fragmented, sometimes rendered meaningless by lack of context, and though they did their best to figure out how each piece of data related to every other piece they had, they never knew enough. Every attack, every analysis, every aftermath spawned more questions than were answered.

How was Hydra arranged? How were they supplied? How widely did their bases spread? How much sanction did they have from the USSR? How many soldiers did they have? How were they funded? How many science-experiments-turned-agents did they have? How did their technology work? How was _that_ funded? Which scientists had they recruited, and were all those scientists willing accomplices? What technique had they innovated that allowed them to brainwash people so completely? What organizations around the world had they infiltrated? How did they bring new members, especially new experts, into the fold?

How many heads _did_ Hydra have?

They’d not found the answers to those questions in the six bases they knew about, all now destroyed save the one in which they lived.

But at least some of the answers _must_ be in the ship.

Steve had watched for days as the weather allowed.

Steve was _done_ watching.

The night was frigid and still save for a breeze that eddied swirls of snow into the air, dark save for the lights mounted on the aircraft carrier. Thick ice covered the ocean, and though Steve suspected he was strong enough to break through, the noise and disruption would give away his presence. Fortunately, the cratered and folded land formed by the ice floes provided ample cover. Steve had recently perfected a way of moving that made him nearly flat, his tentacles spread around him flush with the ground, his torso held at an angle that no human waist could mimic, so low the tips of each tress of hair grew damp from brushing the snow.

He needed a damn haircut.

Creeping across the snow, weight spread so widely he scarce left tracks, Steve advanced as quickly as he dared. Night drenched the world in darkness, only starlight and floodlights to illuminate the terrain. Steve darted from shadow to shadow, circling the ship, covering double the distance necessary as he stalked. No movement on the deck suggestion people out and about, but that didn’t mean no one was watching. There might be somewhere inside and protected from which someone surveilled the area around the Carrier, or there might be someone bundled up on lookout, or the Winter Soldier, or some other operative resistant to the cold, might be on the prowl.

The only suggestion that Steve wasn’t the last animal left alive in the world were the fluffy outlines of birds perched side-by-side on the line connecting the flagged conning tower with a metal rod that stuck out of the ship’s bow. Up close, Steve swore he could see light reflecting off beady black eyes, see the birds tracking his movement.

_Quit the paranoia, Rogers. They’re just birds._

_Who knows what Hydra is capable of?_

_I think we can discount “bird spies” from the list of possibilities. If Hydra was capable of using birds as lookouts they’d have raised a cry already. No one has reacted to my presence even though I’ve been visible several times; ergo, Hydra can’t brainwash birds._

Steve would have laughed at the absurdity if he wasn’t concerned about revealing his location.

Ice heaves surrounded the ship’s prow as if it had dug a fissure as it grounded, instead of been surrounded as it floated. The angle of the floodlights precluded illumination so close to the ship, and in a single glide Steve passed from brilliant light into darkness. Only light refracting through milky ice provided a dim glow; the matte gray of the hull read as a void of blackness. Reaching out with his tentacles, Steve tasted the metal. It was frigid, rimed, tasted of copper and steel and lead and paint, and Steve’s suckers adhered and tore free every time he flexed.

_This is going to hurt._

_No help for it._

Steve launched himself at the steel plating.

Tentacle over tentacle, hand over hand, Steve hefted himself up, up, up. The ship hadn’t seemed large from a distance, dwarfed by the magnificence of the Siberian coast, but up close it was enormous. His heart beat loudly in his ears, blood racing heat that seemed to ebb through every pore and suction cup, and his nerves thrummed anticipation.

One tentacle curled over the deck of the ship, rubbery skin catching the light with a navy sheen.

Steve froze. Tugging the arm back, he crept millimeter by millimeter to the edge. For all his modifications, he _still_ couldn’t peek around a corner or ledge without reveal several inches of hair and forehead, but there was no help for it. Revealing as little of his head as possible, Steve took his first look over the deck.

Letters were painted, huge and clear, on the cleared platform.

_Graf Zeppelin._

_I know that name…_

Last Steve had heard, the _Graf Zeppelin_ was in port on Hitler’s orders, but apparently it had survived the war and been seized – or maybe Hitler had never had a hand in the decommissioning of the ship, maybe Hydra had fabricated the orders necessary to put the ship under their command regardless of the Third Reich’s intentions. Heavily modified, Steve hadn’t recognized the ship from a distance despite having studied the Navy’s ID logs, but looking out at the deck littered with JU 87 bombers and BF 109 bombers confirmed that this was another post-Nazi hand-me-down. Several other familiar wing-spans and paint jobs spoke to planes requisitioned wherever Hydra could find them: two A-20Cs presumably given to the USSR through Lend-Lease, a single P-63 Kingcobra that looked the worse for wear, and a Supermarine Spitfire that must have a story to tell, if only judging by the UK flag yet painted on the fins and the impressive pinup draped over the nose.

_Infiltration...they’re definitely engaged in infiltration...we’ve got to find out who their agents are in the West._

Nothing moved.

Steve watched.

Again.

Counting off 60 seconds repeatedly, Steve observed the deck, searching for any sign of danger. He lingered on the side of the ship until the thin membranes of his fin-like ears felt frozen, until he was leery of how much it would hurt to unclasp his suckers from the frigid metal, until his eyes burned from the wind and the strain of assiduous observation. A half hour passed, an hour, the stars twinkling overhead like the heavens themselves had frozen over, the planes pinned like colorful butterflies on the wide deck of the ship, not so much as a bob to show they were yet asea.

Steve set his fingertips and four tentacle tips on the deck. Flinching prematurely as he awaited an outcry, Steve waited, ears attuned to the night, but the deck remained near-silent save for faint mechanical whirs that Steve could feel more than hear.

 _What are you_ doing _, Steve?_ Waiting _for them to find you? Move, man, move!_

Swinging up on the tentacles he latched to the deck, Steve bolted toward the conning tower. There was no cover to be had, the floodlights casting haloed shadows of varying intensities around everything on deck, Steve included. The night remained placid, the slap-slap of his tentacles the only noise, not even the birds apparently disturbed by the irregularity in the night, and Steve prayed that things would stay peaceful.

_Brilliant going. I could have skirted around the deck in the shadow of the hull until I was directly across from the conning tower, but no, I had to go above deck right there! Couldn’t wait, couldn’t look for a better vantage, couldn’t—_

_Let it go, Rogers! What’s done is done!_

Panting clouds into the night, Steve ducked into an inset bulkhead door on the deck, hiding himself as completely as possible in the thick doorjamb.

No alarm sounded.

No lookout moved.

No plane shifted.

A minute passed.

Closing his eyes, offering another prayer heavenward, Steve used two tentacles to turn the wheel to open the door, clung to the metal as the door swung open into the tower, darted onto the ceiling and closed the door behind him as softly as he could. It sealed with a soft rumble in his wake. He’d expected a guard on the other side, but the door he’d chosen opened into a staircase, lights kept low this late. Metal lattice stairs would betray the lightest of steps, but Steve had no need to walk on the metal. Clinging to the wall, he considered his options: up or down.

Steve had little experience with ships; the Pacific had been the water war, and Steve’s service had been limited to the Atlantic theater. He’d taken a troop transport to get to Europe, and he’d toured the USS Intrepid before it left the Navy Yard, and that was the sum total of his knowledge. The _Graf Zeppelin_ and the _Intrepid_ had superficial design similarities, but Steve had no frame of reference for guessing where the records storage area might be on either ship. The conning tower that rose above him was vulnerable to attack, critical to commanding the vessel. Even in a ship so large, space was at a premium; a ship a quarter-mile long housed something like 2000 soldiers. Even if Hydra didn’t have a full crew complement, there still wouldn’t be room to spare, with bunks, offices, engines, stores, _everything_ on board necessary to sustain a decent-sized town. Steve didn’t give a damn about the ship’s layout or who was in command or where the engines were. He needed information; records would most likely be held in a part of the ship not suitable for habitation and not essential to operation.

Steve headed down the stairs, below decks.

Poor lights rendered the narrow staircase in shades of sickly yellow and orange. The deeper Steve descended – one story, a second, a third – the more claustrophobic he felt, the more heavily the tons of metal overhead weighed on him. The metal beneath his tentacles tasted bitter, musky and moldy, upsettingly similar to the surfaces within the sunken U-Boat he’d explored.

_Maybe I’ve had this wrong all along. Maybe it’s a death boat. Maybe I’ll find nothing but corpses._

Clunks and rattles and a vibrating hum spoke to machinery operating elsewhere on the ship.

_Too optimistic by half, Steve._

The staircase bottomed out four decks down in a narrow, tiny room with a single undersized door leading out. A murky, stinking puddle putrefied beneath the last staircase grate, tiny ripples vibrating in time to the working of some piece of equipment that clanked rhythmically nearby. Steve opened the bulkhead and stepped into an equally confined hall; had he legs, he didn’t think he could have stood up straight, and regardless of whether he clung to ceiling or floor there was no way another person could pass through without colliding with him. Gently closing the door, Steve headed deeper into the ship. His memories of the Intrepid were faint, confused and conglomerated with the four days he’d spent aboard the troop transport that brought him to Europe in ‘43. Vibrations in the walls reverberated through Steve’s eardrums, suggesting the proximity of the ship’s engines and power generators.

Troops would be stationed around the engines 24-7.

If Steve approached, they’d know he was there the moment he opened the bulkhead door.

_But if I don’t survey the ship systematically..._

There was a doorway at the end of the narrow hall.

Steeling himself, Steve approached the door, opened the bulkhead, and nudged it open.

“What are you waiting for?” snapped a man in Russian from beyond the door. “Get in here!”

Steve yanked the door back, wheeled it shut, and hastened back the way he’d come. Over the sound of his heavy breathing he could hear the squeak, squeak, _squeal_ as whoever had spoken opened the door to investigate. Three tentacles trailed behind him as he escaped to the staircase; he scarce got them free before he closed and locked the door and fled upwards. Only when he was up one floor did he freeze, clinging to the side wall, out of sight from below.

Every faint sound echoed loud, and Steve easily heard when the door opened.

“Really?” the man shouted angrily. “I’m done playing this game, Sergei. Your pranks stopped being fun weeks ago!”

The door slammed shut with a resounding _boom_.

Steve forced his chest to inflate around a deep breath, forced himself to release it as a slow sigh that dissipated the tension binding his shoulders.

Bold letters stenciled “3. Deck” marked the door leading out to the third deck. With another calming breath – _still luckier than I have any right to be, thank God_ – Steve opened the door. Expecting another narrow hallway, he was surprised to instead find himself in a long, narrow, low-ceilinged room divided into narrow aisles of tall shelving. Though where he stood was dim, brighter lights ahead cast long shadows down the pathways. For the first time since he’d left the Wrecking Crew base, Steve smelled something other than cold and ocean.

Sausage.

He’d found the mess.

His stomach rumbled.

Feeling like a roach creeping around the cabinets of his old apartment, Steve took to the ceiling and scurried – _no, that’s definitely the wrong verb to describe my movement, and creepy to boot_ – down the corridor made by the shelving around him. Clatters, clanks, and hisses spoke to flames cooking, water boiling, and spoons hitting the sides of pots. Occasionally, a voice echoed commands that Steve could sometimes understand, other times not as sound distorted weirdly. “Fetch the rice!” was yelled three times with increasing ferocity, but nothing was said of note, and Steve tuned out the extraneous hubbub, focusing on avoiding the areas where people worked. The ceiling was higher than on the lower deck, but still not high enough that he’d escape notice if he attempted to pass over someone’s head. Steam and bright light and appetizing aromas suggested areas set aside for cooking to his right; Steve stuck to the storage shelving as he added the room’s dimensions to his mental map of the interior of the vessel.

A uniformed man appeared at the end of the row of shelves down which Steve traveled. Flattening himself to the ceiling as best he could, he went still.

_Next time, I’m painting my skin and tentacles to match the gray of the ceiling._

_Next time, huh, Rogers? Way to plan ahead._

“Yes, Chef,” muttered the man in a country dialect of Russian, stalking down the corridor. “No, Chef.” His hands clenched and unclenched at the edge of his black Hydra uniform, his scowl fixed toward the floor. Steve scarce dared breathe. “We’re _out_ of rice, Chef. No I won’t suck your cock, Chef. Bastard. I should be chief cook.” With impotent fury, the man snatched a nondescript box from the shelf, grunted at the weight, turned on a heel and stomped back the way he’d come, grumbling growing indistinct.

Steve bit his lip against a relieved sigh.

_Enough dilly-dallying. They haven’t hidden the records in flour bins or amidst the potatoes. Quit procrastinating. They’re going to find out I’m here eventually. What good’s done if I move so cautiously that I find nothing before some bitter peon spots me and raises the alarm?_

Keeping to the ceiling, Steve sped toward the far end of the long room.

 _That soldier sounded so…so_ human _. Transplant him to any air craft carrier in any navy in the world and he’d not be out of place. He’s with Hydra. He should…he should look like the kind of person he is, a devil in disguise, complete with cloven hooves and horns and a red tail sticking out of his—_

No _, Steve. I let you get away with a lot of immature bullshit but I will_ not _let you co-opt racist or anti-Semitic imagery. The enemy is always human, not a boogeyman, not a monster under the bed. Even Schmidt, underneath his twisted exterior, was simply a man._

 _Underneath_ my _twisted exterior,_ I’m _still a man._

_Ya know, the longer goes by, the less I buy this whole “I’m totally sanguine with being a squid” thing_

_But regardless._

_We’re all_ people _._

_Isn’t that far scarier than pretending the soldiers of Hydra are monsters? Monsters have no choice but to be evil. They’re constructs of our imagination sent to plague us, archetypes of horror, straw men we can vanquish in order to feel better about ourselves and our place in the world._

_Men have_ choice _. No one comes to serve on a Hydra ship hidden in Arctic waters by_ accident _. Out of a world of opportunities, out of a lifetime of moments when we can choose to do right or choose to do wrong, the people on this ship made choices that led them here._

 _Unless, like the Winter Soldier, they were once men and have been turned into monsters_.

_I will save him._

The room ended at a large bulkhead with no bottom lip, presumably a means of moving goods and supplies into and out of the kitchens. There’d be no need for so large a door otherwise, and presumably another exit led to the cafeteria. There’d be no records in either the kitchen or the lunchroom, and given the risk of discovery, Steve decided to forego investigating. This direction was more promising, provided no one caught him.

“I wonder if Herr Reinhardt would promote me if I killed Chef.” The same furious voice startled Steve. A jolt of fear like electricity stabbed down his spine and caused his unattached suckers to dilate and clench.

_See? This man is willing to kill his boss over a bag of rice. That anyone could be so disconnected from decency is far scarier than imagining a ghost down a darkened alleyway._

_Not. the. moment. Rogers._

_You can’t see me, can’t see me, can’t see me…_

The man didn’t look up. But he _did_ open the large doorway. Instead of swinging out on hinges, it parted down the middle and each half pushed into the bulkhead wall. The man stepped through, grousing all the while, and didn’t bother closing it behind him.

_I am the luckiest son of a bitch on the planet. Jesus, Mary, and Joseph Christ, thank you._

_Mother, Bucky, thanks for looking out for me…_

Creeping along the ceiling, the only sound Steve made was the soft pucker of his suckers suctioning and releasing as he moved. The _pfft_ was scarce audible even to his own ear over the constant hum of machinery and was certainly drowned out by the disgruntled soldier’s stream of complaints. A hallway the same width and height as the oversized doorway stretched ahead; he was fairly sure the wall to his left was the ship’s hull, and the other side was punctured at frequent intervals by doors. Steve trailed behind the soldier. There was no cover in the hallway and Steve prayed the man didn’t turn around.

No sooner did Steve have the thought that man stopped walking. With a burst of speed, Steve shifted to the wall behind the man and passed him, continuing farther down the corridor, holding his breath, hoping the suctioning sound was even softer than he thought was. The man glanced behind himself with a frown, muttered, “I hate this Godforsaken hunk of metal,” and opened the door. A blast of cold air revealed a freezer within, the man walked in still muttering, and Steve finally had some freedom to move.

The corridor hit a dead end before an enormous bay door that appeared to be welded shut and which Steve guessed had once been used to load goods onto the ship. A door to Steve’s right suggested another room or corridor, probably the latter. The ship was enormous, and unlike Hydra’s bizarrely configured bases, which might be attacked, forcing Hydra into a pitched battle through the halls, there was no advantage to arcanely arranging the hallways of a ship. Sure enough, the doorway opened into a staircase, with a doorway on the platform opposite. Steve took a deep breath and continued through the opposite door.

No one was beyond.

Exploring the ship quickly became strangely routine. The area that Steve emerged into was dim, powered down for the night, and lined with doorways. Exploring, Steve noticed patterns in how the ship was configured. There was a plaque beside every door, each labeled similarly: the letter S followed by a four number designation. Steve chanced opening one, but he’d scarce cracked the airlock when loud snoring reverberated through the hallway and he pulled it shut again. A single insomniac spotting Steve would alert the crew, and he was content to assume that every room designated “S” was crew quarters. Room by room, corridor by corridor, Steve mapped out the third floor, the knack he’d learned for layouts while in art school proving invaluable once again.

3rd Deck: mess, kitchen, cafeteria, recreational area, crew quarters.

Onwards to 2. Deck.

The door opened onto a standard narrow hallway, the lights on at full intensity. Labeled bulkheads spoke to other hallways branching off – those were labeled F and had three number identifiers. Other doors were labeled N, and Steve tentatively pushed open the first of those doors.

Within was a tiny darkened office. The lights were off, but the hallway lights were bright enough to show the immaculate interior. Metal furniture was welded directly to the floor and walls. Even with the ship iced in, guaranteeing they’d not be tossed about by waves or weather, the desk was bare, every item that might drift or roll or tumble stowed. The walls were bare, and the only furniture was the desk and chair, and Steve suspected it wasn’t currently in use. Still, if there was even a single spare document lying around… _any_ information was better than no information, and Steve could be caught at any time. If nothing else, searching this office would familiarize him with the contents and he’d be able to investigate subsequent “N” rooms more quickly.

Gently easing the door shut with two tentacles, Steve used a third to flip the lights on, reaching across the table with three others as he glided to stand behind the desk. Four drawers, two to each side, were held shut by latches and positioned such that Steve could imagine how often the office occupant must bruise their thighs on the corners.

_Hey! Problems I’ll never have again! No knees, no thighs, no bumps and bruises! Just like to see some asshole try and kneecap me!_

A quick investigation of the desk turned up little; two drawers contained neatly arranged office supplies, two contained folders. Steve glanced over the labeled file tabs: menus, recipes, inventories, receipts. Assuming they were correctly labeled, this must be the chef’s office. As much as Steve would like to seize every document and sort out what mattered later, if he found a better cache later, he’d not be strong enough to carry everything. The more areas of the ship he disrupted, the more likely he’d be discovered. Nothing here would be useful enough to justify the risks. He had to be selective, grab something _actually_ relevant to what he was trying to accomplish, and get out.

_Wait, what am I trying to accomplish?_

_Bring down Hydra –_ answered his sense of duty.

 _Save the Winter Soldier_ – answered his compassion and humanity.

The two thoughts came one atop the other, and Steve could only shake his head at his all-to-frequent mental disconnects.

_Both. I can’t think of any reason that I shouldn’t be able to accomplish both, especially with the Wrecking Crew to help with the data analysis and the Hydra attacks._

Keeping that mentality front and center, Steve went from office to office. There were a half dozen along first hallway he explored, identical, differentiated only by the number on the plaque and the occasional splash of personalization brought by photographs or documents hung on the walls. Those, Steve left, even if they appeared potentially relevant; anyone who stepped into the office after Steve left would notice the absence of something posted so prominently. Some offices were scant on files, other laden, and Steve flipped through as fast as he could. His intention was to pull anything that looked important, but nothing struck his eye. Another office had nothing but logs of ships stores used, another accounting logs kept by someone with handwriting so illegible that Steve could only guess what was being accounted for, a fourth was out of use, a fifth had a single file containing photographs of a happy family. Growing frustrated – _so much time_ wasted _!_ – Steve hurried on.

Down the next hallway, the doors were spaced just the same, labeled just the same, and Steve didn’t bother investigating them. He didn’t care how much gasoline the engines used or how many lentils the crew ate. Yes, that information _was_ useful – the first would give some idea where the fuel came from, some idea what the ship was capable of; the second could be used by experts to deduce the ship’s crew complement – but in comparison to information about the Winter Soldier, about Hydra’s assassination targets, about agents who may have infiltrated countries around the world, about existing Hydra bases, about potential Hydra collaboration with the Soviet government, it was irrelevant. If records on those sensitive issues existed on the _Graf Zeppelin_ , they’d not be in the pokey office of a low-level functionary. A third hallway was more of the same, and a fourth, maybe 30 offices total – not an unreasonable number, given the likely number of officers needed to command the crew of a ship this size – and Steve pressed on until, finally, he found a hallway that offered a different view: long, unbroken, heading aft, ending in another bulkhead door.

Excited, Steve pushed through...

...and was disappointed when the door opened into yet _another_ identical hallway lined with evenly spaced doorways. Heaving a sigh, Steve prepared to move on, scarce sparing a glance for the doors, and stumbled over his tentacles as he noticed that the rooms were labeled differently.

_L-10_

_Do I...?_

_Don’t I...?_

Too much time was passing.

Steve hauled the door open.

Within was a room scarce bigger than the offices had been, but instead of a desk there was a metal gurney, straps done up flush with the flat top to prevent them dangling free.

_…cold metal under his shoulder blades, even the flow of hot blood not enough to warm the surface…_

Steve shuddered.

A peek into a second room revealed the same, and the same in a third. Aside from the operating tables the rooms were bare, not even a storage cabinet for supplies.

_A storage cabinet for torture equipment. Call the cigar a cigar._

There must be someplace nearby where the scientists – _torturers_ – prepared their surgical equipment – _torture implements_. Hurrying down the hall, Steve took in the number on each door.

_L-13…_

_Geeze, how many rooms do they need? How many people do they expect to torture_ at the same time _that they have such extensive facilities? Space on a ship is more luxe than a room at the Waldorf._

_L-14…_

_If they’ve got this many_ test subjects _to work on, where are they keeping the prisoners? I need to…_

_L-15…_

_…I need to_ focus _and not worry about freeing people who will die of exposure if by some miracle I’m able to get them off the ship in the first place._

_L-16…_

_And that’s assuming that anyone I attempt to rescue doesn’t try to stab me. I can’t count on them all having the Winter Soldier’s aim._

_L-17…_

_Or worse, they could recapture me._

_L-18…_

_Great, just thinking of that possibility_ now _, Rogers? It’d be easy for them now that I’m in their territory. No more risk of mishaps with poisons administered to my tentacles._

_L-19…_

_The deeper into this ship I delve, the more bulkheads stand between me and freedom. They might already know I’m here. They might already be watching. The apparent placidity of the_ Graf Zeppelin _at night could be an illusion. Once I’m in their power, there’s no need for them to act immediately. I’m already trapped. They can learn a lot by watching where I go, observing what I do, assessing what my targets are, then swooping in for the kill…_

_L-20…_

_Paranoia, Rogers. Hydra doesn’t need to play games. Why act coy when they could capture me immediately and torture the information out of me, or brainwash me until I tell them?_

_L-101…_

_What, think I’ll break that easily? I—_

_Wait, 101?_

Berating himself under his breath, Steve glided back. Not only was L-101 numbered differently, the door was spaced farther apart from the surrounding doors. Something else about it seemed off, too, but Steve didn’t realize what until he pushed it open and glided within. There was no lip at the bottom of the door. Every bulkhead, every office, every doorway save the supply corridor for the mess had a foot-high lip around the bottom, but this door didn’t.

Steve flicked on the lights.

_Jackpot!_

Compared to the rooms Steve had recently investigated, this one seemed large, though it was only about the size of Steve’s tenement in Brooklyn. Four desks were welded in place, inner corners meeting at the center of the room, each identical to the desks he’d already encountered. The walls were lined with cabinets and drawers. Two small rolling tables were secured to the far wall by chains.

_They removed the lip from this door so the carts of equipment could be wheeled out, but left the lips on the laboratory doors? That’s just nonsensical._

_And irrelevant. Focus, Steve._

Reaching tentacles out in six directions simultaneously, Steve undid latches and pulled open drawers. Each drawer was labeled, but there must be at least fifty and Steve didn’t have time to meticulously investigate them individually.

_Now we’re cooking with gas…_

Scarce paying attention to the sensations coming to him through his suckers – _pull open drawer, glance touch over contents, no need to look – this is a drawer of scalpels, this is a drawer of scissors, this is a drawer of gauze_ – Steve devoted his attention to the filing cabinet drawers, tugging open the first and scanning the file labels.

_01165; 01405; 01920; 01933; 03133; 03412…_

_I know that number! That’s them. That’s the prisoner who was shown pictures of me!_

Steve used two tentacles and scooped all the files up and out. Whichever prisoners they were, they were important enough to have their records kept here, and the odds that Hydra knew he was coming, the odds that Hydra had filtered and intentionally left these for Steve to find, were nil.

_No matter how paranoid you are, Rogers. Hydra isn’t omniscient or omnipotent. If they were, they’d have done a better job making me a kraken. If they were, they’d have won already. Schmidt was a megalomaniac, Zola and the rest are fanatics. They’re only gods in their own delusions, and granting them the power of a deity gives their incompetence far too much menace. There’s no master plan. They’re sick lunatics with devastatingly dangerous toys, vermin that need to be wiped off the planet. End of story._

The next drawer contained more prisoner records, and Steve gathered them up too. The pile was large, heavy, awkward, and he looped two tentacles around it, encircling the stack lengthwise and widthwise like his mother used to do with ribbon around Christmas gifts, using his suction cups to prevent individual folders from sliding free. The edges of pieces of paper slit into his suckers, and Steve gritted his teeth against the pricks of pain as he kept working. Even as Steve’s hands and attention were engaged with the drawers, his tentacles continued to reach across the narrow space separating the desks from the shelving, pulling each drawer open. Those whose contents he couldn’t identify by touch, he lifted out whatever was within, spared it a glance, and put it back. All contained “surgical” supplies. This was certainly the torturer’s office, and they had quantities of equipment to match the number of laboratories they had.

_Next time I’m here I’m freeing the prisoners, damn it._

The files in the second desk were each labeled “Schema” – schematics – followed by a number. Steve pulled one out, flipped it open, and was confronted by a baffling technical image which told him everything he needed to know: the folder contents were important, meaningless to him, and worth seizing and showing to an engineer. Alison might understand, or one of the other Crew members, and failing that Peggy could get them to Stark and—

A clatter jerked Steve’s head up, froze his multi-tasking tentacles in place. Twisting around – the more accustomed to his new limbs he grew, the less necessary he found it to actually _turn_ – Steve stared at the door. He’d opened and closed every drawer gently. He’d not dropped anything. _He_ hadn’t made the noise.

The door didn’t open.

Berating himself, Steve gathered up the next batch of documents as he continued to stare. He was wasting time, worrying about _what_ the documents were, letting paranoia dictate his actions. Odds were everything in this room was valuable. Odds were it would be easiest to take everything, even considering what an onerous bundle they formed. Odds were that this was _all_ Steve would get to take. Luck had been _absurdly_ in his favor since he’d arrived on the ship – heck, since he’d started his crusade against Hydra – but he wouldn’t tempt fate. Any Hydra agent who opened these drawers would know something was amiss and would raise the alarm.

_But it’s only a matter of time before I’m discovered. I can’t count on luck forever. What I’ve got now – it’s enough. It’ll have to be enough._

The drawers along the wall were a waste of time. All they contained were equipment and tools and doodads whose usage Steve didn’t want to contemplate. Drawing his tentacles back so he could use them to help carry the documents, Steve hustled around the desks, pulled open the remaining four desk drawers, and added the files contained therein to his stash. His eyes never left the door, but the wheel that operated the bulkhead lock didn’t turn, the door didn’t open, and Steve’s nerves jangled, tension winding him tighter. Half his tentacles were occupied holding the bulky documents. Using his dicks  that way was weird, but he didn’t have a choice – it was either carry with them or walk on them, and walking on them was…uncomfortable.

Another _clang_ echoed through the ship, vibrated through Steve’s tentacles, through the floor, and Steve…jumped…or, rather, bobbled. His supporting tentacles were still on the floor but they lengthened, carried him up, settled him back down.

_Absolutely. Ridiculous._

_If there was someone outside the door they’d hardly warn me by rattling all over the place._

_And if it was someone who didn’t know I was here they’d not delay, they’d come in._

_So there’s no one there, the noises aren’t related to my presence, and I need to skedaddle._

Rolling his eyes at his own behavior, Steve flicked the light off with a tentacle, used a hand to turn the wheel in the center of the door that served as a knob, pushed the door open…

…and took a fist to the face.

Light flashed blobs before his vision as he reeled back, his grasp on the door slipping. An echoing rattle of metal-on-metal was rendered meaningless over the bells ringing in his ears. He tried to fall back, to gain even a moment to gather himself – _wait, do I need a moment? The door is closed again_ – but his back and the hip-like bulge of his tentacles slammed into one of the welded-in-place desk chairs. His tentacles curled and suctioned around the chair legs, the desk legs, his mind unconsciously seeking a grip to steady his disorientation.

A second punch took him in the side of the jaw – _okay, maybe the door_ isn’t _closed_ – and Steve’s mouth flooded with blood. Clearing vision showed him the smug look in the Winter Soldier’s eyes, he thought that second punch had knocked Steve for even more of a loop than the first, but no; spitting blood from his mouth, Steve’s equilibrium returned and battle-calm came over him.

 _The_ Winter Soldier _looks smug. The man whose expression has scarce changed from utter flatness over the course of a half-dozen battles looks over-confident, almost cocky._

The ramifications were beyond his ability to process in the split second he had before the Soldier threw a third punch. Steve caught it with his hand, sensation like pins and needles jolting through his palm and up to his elbow, and forced the Soldier back. The Soldier’s eyes narrowed, angry, and Steve pushed, pushed, and forced the Winter Soldier to give ground. Steve’s large body was both an advantage and a disadvantage in the tight quarters; spreading his limbs out, he used his tentacles, his torso, his arms, even the files he bore, to crowd the Soldier out of the room.

Steve didn’t need to beat the Winter Soldier. For once, even incapacitation wasn’t Steve’s objective. As cold as it was out in the Siberian tundra, and as burdened as Steve was by the files, he couldn’t carry the documents _and_ the super soldier to safety.

_And I’d choose to retrieve dead pieces of paper over a Hydra victim?_

_The good of the many outweighs the good of the one, Steve, even one you’re obsessed with._

Step by begrudging step, the Soldier slid backward. Reaching up, he tried to tear Steve’s hand away, break Steve’s grip on his fist, but Steve’s tentacles intercepted the Soldier’s other hand and their grips locked in a grapple. The Soldier was strong, but Steve strained so hard his muscles bulged, all of Steve’s free tentacles braced against the floor, and for the first time in any of their encounters it was clear: Steve had the edge in raw strength, if only barely. The Solder couldn’t let go, couldn’t break free, didn’t dare use his leg muscles for anything other than supporting him and straining and—

Pain doubled Steve over; focused as he’d been, he couldn’t say how the Winter Soldier had attacked, but their palms slipped apart and a hand struck Steve’s sternum, knocking him breathless. His torso slammed back again under a second blow, but his tentacles held firm in place on the floor, suction cups rendering him immune to being pushed. Another blow struck his chest, another, before Steve managed to move, snagging the Soldier’s hands with two tentacles and jerking him hard aside. The Soldier stumbled farther into the room, and Steve had the opening he needed: the door was clear.

A split second, Steve hesitated. If he could save the Soldier...

_Make good choices, Steve!_

...but he couldn’t, not yet, not now, and he sprinted through the open doorway. Behind him, the Soldier snarled and pursued him, heavy footsteps _thunking_ over the deck.

_…which way, which way, which way..._

The last staircase Steve had seen had been at the head of this hall; he bolted there, opening the door as fast as he could as the Soldier approached behind him. Every breath hurt, stabbed pain through his chest – a broken rib, probably – and he scarce got through the doorway before a blow hit his back. Dodging ahead, Steve leapt to take to the walls and forge a route the Soldier couldn’t mimic, but he was too laden down by the files to hold himself up with his remaining tentacles. The Soldier was so close behind him that the door didn’t even shut, and a boot stomped Steve’s trailing tentacle.

_Just have to get away! Damn it, why isn’t the Winter Soldier missing me?_

_Because he’s punching, not shooting, and he’s never pulled his punches, that’s what’s so damn weird about him constantly failing to shoot me effectively._

_Focus, Steve!_

Steve launched himself at the stairs, hurling himself upward tentacle over tentacle, heading for the flight deck.

The staircase dead-ended at the first deck.

Snapping out a curse, tearing a tentacle free of the Soldiers grip, Steve took the only exit from the staircase, out the first deck, only to come face to face with a man in Hydra black. The startled soldier squawked and reached for a sidearm that he wasn’t wearing. Steve swung a punch, intent on incapacitating the man, but something stabbed into his back, blood splattering hot down flesh he’d not realized was cold until he felt the contrast. Knocked off balance, Steve sprawled forward, and before his tentacles could catch him the Winter Soldier was on him and the Hydra agent he’d stumbled upon darted around him and there was a sound of skin slapping something solid.

An alarm rang shrill through the ship.

 _Have to get out_ now _!_

 _There’s no help for it_. _I’ve got to fight back._

Pain stabbed into Steve’s back again – a knife, or maybe a bayonet – and without turning, Steve lashed out with his document-laden tentacles, used their bulk and weight to his advantage, and bludgeoned the two men behind him. Both went down with thuds. Even as Steve tore forward down the hall, shrieking siren chasing him onward, he glanced back. The Hydra agent lay sprawled against the door, unmoving, but the Winter Soldier was back on his feet, shaking his head as if dazed. His mask twisted, binding close over his nose and mouth, and even as he ran forward Steve stared back mesmerized as the Soldier looked up and stared at him. His dark eyes, partially obscured by his hair, caught the light to twinkle malevolence and determination. A knot was already rising on his forehead where Steve had struck him, but that couldn’t slow the majestic, remarkable man; the Soldier launched into motion, arms and legs churning as he ran full tilt, and Steve tore his gaze away.

A soldier with a gun stood in front him, blocking the next bulkhead exit.

Gunshots rang out, painfully loud in the confined space. A shot buried in Steve’s chest, another ricocheted off the wall in a shower of sparks, a third passed so close to his head that he heard it whistle, a fifth hit a tentacle. It geysered blood, splattered the hallway and the documents Steve held. He didn’t need to glance back to know the Soldier was close on his heels, very close, and—

Something buzzed by Steve’s ear from behind, and he instinctively dodged even though he knew it was too late to avoid – had, in fact, already missed him—

 _Again with the terrible aim! I_ know _he’s a better combatant than that so why—_

A knife embedded in the head of the soldier standing before him. For an instant that seemed a lifetime, Steve and the man’s gazes met, and Steve suspected his own expression was a damn good mirror to the incredulity and horror on the Hydra soldier’s face as his legs gave way and he fell.

 _Who_ is _the Winter Soldier?_

The question was such a shock, so obvious, yet so new, that Steve nearly whirled in place to confront him and demand answers.

 _No! Now isn’t the time! We’ll surely meet again, and maybe there’s something in these files to answer that question, but I can only get that information, use it, disseminate it, if I escape from here with the records intact…or at least no more covered in blood than they are now_.

Every pant gurgled in Steve’s throat and lungs as he pushed himself on, crashed into the door as he opened it, and found himself in another staircase that _also_ didn’t go farther up. If the difficulty he had breathing was any indication, the bullet to his chest had punctured a lung. He couldn’t move his torso without agony tearing at his flesh, ripping at his brain, momentarily painting the monotone gray metal walls and yellowed lighting in eerie shades of red and purple. Across the staircase landing was another door; Steve ran to it, escaped through it, bolted down the next hallway. Doors opened all around him as Steve hurtled forward.

_How are they not already in the hall? How have they not already mobilized against me?_

_Because for all that it_ feels _like the Winter Soldier has been chasing me for an hour, it can’t have been longer than a minute, and none of these wakening men know what the threat is or what they should be doing about it. Aside from drills this is probably the first warning alarm they’ve heard in months._

Steve lunged past two soldiers who stumbled aside, ignored squawked questions and angry shouts, focused on the _pound, pound, pound_ of the Soldier’s boots behind him.

 _Close, so close – why doesn’t he catch me? Why did he kill the soldier shooting at me? Damn it,_ _who_ are _you?_

Someone grabbed at Steve, fingers digging into his flesh. He tore himself free and reached ahead with two tentacles to open the next door. Reducing the number of tentacles supporting him when he was already weakened by injuries ruined his balance, but even as he fell he got the door open, got the tentacles under him again, caught himself, continued forward. There was a tug at one of his trailing tentacles, another blip of pain on his already swamped consciousness, and Steve pushed all the distractions away.

Stairs led _up_.

_Thank. Fucking. God._

The staircase was rapidly flooding with soldiers pouring in from the lower decks, shouts and commands rendered to meaningless echoes, and Steve took the stairs two at a time as he headed toward the flight deck. Rounding on a platform between flights of stairs, Steve caught a glimpse of the chaos in his wake: the Soldier reaching for him, the soldiers below aiming up looking for clear shots, a few files that had escaped Steve’s grip drifting free, blood reddening the metal lattice stairs. Fingers dug into one of Steve’s tentacles, tore, and another burst of pain mirrored the previous and more files fell free.

_He’s ripping my tentacles off._

_God damn it why does that keep happening to me?_

_No. Ignore it. They’ll grow back and I still have 18 other perfectly functional appendages – 20 if I count my arms – and I should really count my arms, ‘cause I need them…and…_

_Focus!_

As if to prove the importance of his hands – as if it needed proving – Steve wrapped his fingers around the wheel that operated the door and jerked it hard to one side. The Soldier grabbed for him again; leaping up, supporting himself entirely with his arms, Steve swung his body around, brought his substantial weight to bear against the Winter Soldier, and slammed into him. Tentacles and documents whomped into the Soldier’s body; he grunted, Steve twisted again and whipped the largest pile of folders against the Soldier’s face before he could get his guard up. Those piercing eyes snapped shut as the Soldier lost his balance, sailed back, and tumbled down the stairs. Below, someone screamed and a cacophony of gunfire broke out.

“No!”

Steve scarce realized he howled aloud.

_Don’t shoot him!_

Lower body crashing to the ground, rattling pain through Steve’s bones, for a moment he hesitated. The Winter Soldier had tumbled out of sight, down and down, lost amid the chaos of movement that was all Steve could see of the decks below.

_They could kill him! I have to—_

_Steve! Stop!_

The Soldier’s wounds would heal. Steve wasn’t sure if he had super-healing like Steve did, or if Hydra patched him up every time, but either way the Winter Soldier was valuable and Hydra wouldn’t let him die.

Steve forced himself to open the door to the flight deck, to step out into the night.

 _I can’t do everything_. _If I get over-confident and Hydra captures or kills me, I won’t be able to do_ anything _. Priorities._

A blast of stunningly cold air whooshed around Steve and stole his breath, amplified the pain of his injuries, and though he prayed for numbness, it didn’t come. A blaring siren sounded the alert over the ship’s deck but not a soul stirred.

_Run, you id—_

An agonized scream resounded through the gap left by the yet-open door and Steve froze.

_That was him._

_No. That’s absurd. How could it be him? It was some soldier getting hit by friendly fire, or someone falling down the stairs, or someone struck by a ricochet._

_Even if it_ was _him, I_ cannot help him _now._

_Stop obsessing, Steve. Are you this shallow? Do you get this hung up on every attractive brainwash victim who tries to kill you, or just this one?_

_“Attractive?” Understatement of the year, Rogers, he’s gorgeous._

_But none of that stops my injuries from hurting, none of that gets me off this damn ship and back home, and none of that gets these documents read._

_I can’t help him now, and I won’t learn who the Winter Soldier is by malingering._

_Malingering? Really Rogers? And hell, when did I start thinking of that squalid, cold reclaimed Hydra base as_ home _?_

Move _, you idiot!_

Steve darted across the deck, sparing a moment and a tentacle to close the door behind him. With wind streaming between his tentacles, over his skin, disheveling his hair, the pain finally started to fade – or maybe that was because the cold froze his blood and thus sealed his wounds.

He was at the edge of the deck before he realized that he couldn’t descend from the ship the same way he’d climbed up because he was too heavily burdened.

_When I watched the Soldier reach the ship, that first time, there were winches they used to raise the out boat..._

Eyes accustoming to the comparatively dim light cast by the floodlights on deck, Steve looked around, bolting toward where he’d seen the winches...there! Without slowing, Steve undid the brake holding the chain in place, grabbed the end the hook on the end, and threw himself off the side of the ship. The ground below…far, far below…was dark, light catching and highlighting the peaks of ice chunks as they stabbed up like so many knifes set to impale him.

_Holy shit, Steve, this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done._

Ice rushed toward him, the chain rattling, rattling, as Steve cut an arc through the open night air.

_No it’s not. I invaded Russia! Alone!_

Steve didn’t have a plan past “plummet toward the earth at 9.8 meters per second squared.”

The chain jerked in Steve’s grip and tore free as it reached its limit. Scrambling at for a grip on open air, Steve tumbled the rest of the way to the ground and slammed into a slab of ice.

_Fucking._

_Ow._

_Well, I’m not dead._

Stunned, Steve luxuriated in the feeling. He kinda wished he was dead. Everything hurt.

But no.

Not dead was _always_ better than dead.

It was mighty cold, though.

_Where am I?_

A brisk breeze blew strands of hair over Steve’s face. He blew out – _it’s night, it’s cold, it hurts, none of that tells me..._

The blaring alarm overhead intruded on his awareness and a gunshot echoed through the night, strangely distant, and awareness of his situation crashed back into place abruptly.

Pushing himself up, Steve swayed as he got his bearings. By night, dazed, hurt, tired, overloaded with heavy documents, Steve could scarce focus to think of the way home, but another gunshot shattered through the cold air, reduced a nearby jagged piece of ice to crystalline shards and powder, and Steve jumped like a startled cat.

_The sooner I get home, the sooner I can look through these files and, if my luck holds out, find out who the Winter Soldier is._

With that optimistic thought to warm him and spur him on, Steve started across the field of ice, leaving the loud, bright ship behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts on Friday, June 23rd, 2017.
> 
> FYI, guys, you may have noticed I make an effort to reply to the comments I receive, but in the next couple weeks I'll almost certainly do a crappier job of that. On Friday I start taking a medication that I'm on periodically that causes severe fatigue as a side effect, and it makes it very hard for me to function day-to-day. On top of that, I'm in a bit of a time crunch getting this story done by the July 4th deadline. The combo means I'll likely be responding to very few comments, but I promise I read every single one, and they mean the world to me, and I WILL respond, probably in mid-July.
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	12. Chapter 12

_File: 03703_

_April 12 th, 1945_

_Administered 10 milligrams of D-001._

_Reaction negative._

_Administered 5 milligrams of D-002._

_Reaction negative._

_Administered 50 milligrams of D-003._

_Reaction detected at 30 seconds; subject shivered..._

_Administer 1 milligram of D-004..._

_...of D-005..._

_...of D-006..._

Steve scanned down page after page of neat handwriting describing Subject 03703’s reactions to the medicines administered, most negative, a few clarified in terse words. Every word evoked fragmented memories that Steve would rather have forgotten, but he forced himself to continue.

_April 13 th, 1945_

_Left limb amputated at wrist._

_Administered 10 milligrams of D-001._

_Reaction negative._

_Administered 5 milligrams of..._

To see torture treated as science was sickening. All the files Steve had seized were in German; he, Margaret, and a German who’d joined the Crew named Alfons were the only ones capable of reading them well enough to sort through. A glance and a rough estimate suggested the stack had a couple hundred files left; they’d gone through roughly half already.

_April 14 th, 1945_

_Left limb amputated at elbow._

_Administered 10 milligrams of D-001._

_Reaction negative._

_Administered 5 milligrams of..._

Somewhere in the pile was the file whose number had caught his eye, the file of the prisoner who had been shown pictures of Steve, but Steve had resisted the urge to seek it first. Worst case scenario, it was someone Steve had known, someone Steve had cared about, and the file would contain the proof that whoever it was couldn’t be saved. Best case scenario...there was no best case scenario. Every file was equally horrifying and horrific. That file had caught Steve’s eye, might pertain to him, but _any_ of these files could contain information about the Winter Soldier, or none of them, and any of them could be some poor unfortunate yet awaiting rescue. Steve wouldn’t favor one file over another simply because it happened to be about himself. To do so would be neither right nor fair. Every file represented a real person, a human whom Hydra had tortured, and all deserved Steve’s full attention and respect.

_April 15 th, 1945_

_Left limb amputated at elbow._

_Administered 10 milligrams of D-001._

_Subject ceased to bleed._

_Left limb wound re-opened. Administered 5 milligrams of..._

“What about this one?” asked Alfons, in German, closing the folder he’d been reading and holding it out toward Steve. Idly, Steve waved it away with a tentacle. Even that scant movement radiated pain through his waist and chest. Alfons shrugged, set the folder down, and took up another.

_April 16 th, 1945_

_Administered 500 milligrams of E-001._

_Reaction negative._

_Administered..._

 “Steve...” There was an ominous note in Margaret’s voice. When Steve had gotten back from infiltrating the _Graf Zeppelin_ , she’d done first aid on his wounds, tried to order him to bed with a glowering look on her face and her hands on her hips.

_April 17 th, 1945_

_Right limb amputated at wrist._

_Administered 500 milligrams of E-001._

_Subject screamed. 20 additional milligrams of sedative administered._

_Administered..._

As patiently as he could, Steve had explained to Margaret that he’d heal at precisely the same rate regardless of whether he rested or worked through the pain. He had no actual idea if that was true and he didn’t care. One of these files was the Winter Soldier, _had_ to be the Winter Soldier, and might reveal who the man was. Margaret had begrudgingly conceded the point, with the parting shot that if she thought he was in danger of doing long-term damage to himself, she’d be insist.

_April 18 th, 1945_

_Right shoulder bone excised._

_Administered 500 milligrams of E-001._

_Reaction negative._

_Administered..._

_Their detachment is mind-numbing. If the people doing these “studies” saw every “subject” as a real, living, feeling human-being….even as depraved as Hydra is, they’d not have been able to continue. But a subject isn’t a person, a number isn’t a name, and..._

Looking up, scowling, Steve met Margaret’s challenging gaze, her mechanical eye ever-unblinking and disturbing, though Steve never allowed himself to flinch when he looked at her. _Please let it go, please let it go, please let it..._ “Last warning,” she said.

Of course Steve couldn’t cow her.

He’d found her file more than three hours ago, _Subject 01864_ , and it wasn’t until he’d finished that he’d realize that the person described was his friend. The contrast between Margaret’s vibrant humanity and the sterile, clinical words on the page was mind-numbing.

_April 19 th, 1945_

_Subject lost consciousness in cell overnight. Attempts at revivification failed. Time of death: 07:14._

Reinhardt’s now-familiar, neat signature graced the bottom of the page – not the same handwriting as the document. Reinhardt was too important to be bothered taking his own notes but he signed off on every folder.

Most of the folders had the same macabre conclusion. The causes of death varied, but most of the subjects died. Some were revived multiple times, dying over and over but already changed enough that their bodies could be resuscitated by whatever method Hydra had innovated for bringing people back.

 _Why were_ these _the files important enough to save?_

_Look on the bright side – maybe, just maybe, I got enough information that some SSR scientist will be able to piece together what chemical cocktails Hydra used to get these results._

Subject 03589 had been able to regrow a limb.

Subject 03922 had lived for a week underwater without sustenance.

Subject 02675 had, for no reason Steve had been able to figure out, been given a fully-functional prosthetic penis. Subject 02675 was a woman.

Subject 02023 had been one of the only files that didn’t end in _Attempts at revivification failed. Time of death..._. Based on the description, 02023 was the head they’d found living in a jar at their now-home base. Steve resisted the insane urge to take up his pen and add the annotation to the file himself. _Subject – no, his name was Vladimer Ivanovich Vasilyev and I will_ not _forget him –Vasilyev requested to be euthanized on December 2 nd, 1945. Steve Rogers acceded to his request. Vasilyev recited a letter to his wife, transcribed by Sayaana, to be delivered when possible. Time of death was 23:58._

 _But if SSR can figure out how Hydra did what they did, maybe_ some _good can come from all this appalling suffering._

With a frustrated grunt, Steve threw the file he’d finished on the haphazard pile of documents they’d gone through. A few of the folders had contained personal information about the subject – the _victim_ – a passport, a license, a dog tag – but most didn’t, and aside from the handful that they’d recognized as people they’d met, most were anonymous and likely always would be. There was no record of where their bodies were buried, no way to tie descriptions of myriad tortures and mutilation to men and women whose families would forever be ignorant of their fate. At least Vasilyev’s wife would get closure.

_And find out that her husband was systematically tortured and was in so much pain and so beyond help that he chose suicide over returning home to her._

_The families are better off thinking their loved ones died valiantly in battle, bodies too mangled to be identified. There’s no closure, no satisfaction or hope or vindication to be gained, no benefit to knowing that any human could do these things to any other human._

Shaking away the melancholy thoughts, Steve rubbed fatigue from his eyes, winced as a burst of pain rippled out from his semi-healed stab wounds, and took up the file that Alfons had offered him.

_February 2 nd, 1945_

_Left limb amputated at the shoulder._

_Administered..._

“This looks the same as all the other files,” said Steve blankly. “Why...?” His brain caught up to what he’d read. It _wasn’t_ the same. There hadn’t been a single other file that _started_ with an amputation. Usually days, weeks, months of testing preceded attempts at body modification. Skimming through the pages, Steve took in the information as quickly as he could.

_February 15 th, 1945_

_Administered 1 gram of Q-001._

_Diameter of thigh incision decreased by 2 mm after 1 minute and 6 mm after 60 minutes._

_Administered..._

_February 16 th, 17th, day by day…March 8th, March 9th…_

_March 10 th, 1945_

_Segmented arm successfully grafted to left shoulder._

_Administered 20 grams of Q-001._  

_Graft wound observed continually for 12 hours starting at 08:00. Appeared healed completely by 13:39._

Conviction growing, Steve flipped to the last page.

_January 8 th, 1946_

_Subject exhibited recollection._

_Reinhardt Treatment administered from 12:00 to 16:00._

_Base parameters re-established._

Whoever this was, they weren’t dead.

January 8th was _two days_ ago. It _had_ to be the Winter Soldier. How many people could Hydra have who met this exact description?

_But who is he?_

There was no personal information contained in the file, no interrogation results, no sign that the man in question had a life before he woke up in a horror story on February 2nd, 1945. Scanning up the page to the tab on the folder, Steve read the number.

Subject 03412.

_The same number as was on the file that contained nothing but pictures of me._

_I should have started with this damn file after all._

_What does it mean?_

Uncertainty and ambiguity niggled at Steve, like there was a word on the tip of his tongue, a nebulous idea in his head that refused to coalesce. He was missing something, something _monumental_ , that would make everything that had happened to him in the past year make sense – heck, everything that had happened since the day Dr. Erskine had walked into his examination room at the Stark Expo in ‘43.

_Nonsense. I already know what that missing “something” is. It’s Hydra. Hydra explains the oddities. They’re behind the aspects of Nazism that made no sense. They’re the reason the USSR is strange quiescent despite the Crew engaging in paramilitary guerrilla warfare in Siberia. Hydra is the reason these people went missing, the reason they were tortured. Hydra’s scientists are responsible for the technical innovations that came at far too steep a price._

Returning to the first page of the thick folder, Steve read voraciously.

Page after page, the folder described the torture that Subject 03412 had been subjected to.

_Hydra, somehow, ties the Winter Soldier to me._

_Yeah, that’s great Rogers, really clever – high-falutin rhetoric and broad accusations and no actual information. That’s_ not _the answer to this mystery._

 _The question is,_ how _does Hydra tie the Winter Soldier to_ me _, of all people?_

 _And_ why _?_

Page after page, the folder described the torture that the Winter Soldier had been subjected to.

_Maybe he’s American? Maybe he looked up to “Captain America?” So seeing me suffering would affect him?_

Steve devoured the documents, focusing so hard his eyes burned, searching for any sign, the least hint, of who 03412 might have been _before_ Hydra destroyed his mind.

_Is he someone I know? Someone who was at the facility in Austria? One of the people on the USO tour? Someone I trained with at Lehigh? Heck, someone I grew up with in Brooklyn?_

There wasn’t a clue. No indication that the Soldier had been tortured. No transcriptions of conversations he had with his captors. No dog tags or passports or identifying papers. If Hydra knew who the Soldier was, that information had been so irrelevant to them that they hadn’t bothered to include it in his file.

_Is that why he wears a mask? I’d been assuming it was to keep the cold from the vulnerable membranes in his mouth and nose, but what it’s something more nefarious?_

Maybe there was a second file. Maybe some other officer had identification records, or interrogation reports, or something, _anything_ to say who 03412 was. Frantic for no reason he could put his finger on, Steve tottered to his feet, tentacles reaching out in multiple directions to riffle through the multiple stacks of documents that he and the others had divvied up between them. Margaret and Alfons gave him confused looks.

_What if I’d recognize him if not for the mask?_

“Look for more folders with this number!” They stared at him blankly. “Prisoner 03412,” Steve snapped. “I want to know _everything_ they have on this guy!”

Steve’s gaze scanned over the pages as he continued to flip through, flickered to the folder tabs as his tentacles worked. Margaret stifled a yawn but reached for another pile to search, and Alfons sighed, set his current one aside, and also helped.

Between them, it took mere minutes to check every file.

If they had any other information about the Winter Soldier, the file was labeled differently.

 _I will search every single damn one_.

Steve lifted the last page of the Soldier’s, the one dated two days previous, and caught a glimpse of white as a document fell free and made a sweeping arc as it drifted to the floor. Snagging it with a tentacle, Steve held it up.

Bucky’s face stared back at him, drawn in sketchy, smudged pencil lines on worn paper.

 _Steve’s own damn drawing_ , one of a handful that the wind had stolen and sent fluttering over the tundra, never to be seen again.

Except here it was, in the Hydra file, in the Winter Soldier’s file.

_Who. the fuck. is. the Winter Soldier?_

Not knowing was driving Steve crazy.

He needed more information.

_And there’s only one way to get it…_

* * *

“What do you mean you’re going _back_?” Peggy spluttered. Steve didn’t think he’d ever heard her so shocked.

_It’s like she doesn’t know me..._

_...does she, really, anymore?_

“You almost _died_ the first time, Steve!”

“I was hardly hurt,” said Steve, rolling his eyes.

“Three broken ribs, a bullet to the chest, a collapsed lung, multiple stab wounds and a _limb_ detached isn’t ‘hardly hurt!’” Peggy shouted loudly enough that the receiver crackled.

“I didn’t tell you that,” Steve muttered.

“No, the _other_ Peggy did, because she realized you’d _never own up to it_ and that I needed to know!”

_Margaret goes by Peggy?_

_Peggy and...Peggy...talk behind my back?_

_But clearly not about everything. Missing ‘limb,’ huh?_

_Anyway, why does Peggy, SSR Peggy, ‘need to know’ a catalog of my entirely healable, now healed injuries?_

_...probably for the same reason she needs to know about my tentacles. Doing a bang up job on that, Steve._

“Pegs, that was three days ago,” Steve said soothingly. “I’m _fine_ now.”

“How can I _believe_ that?” Exasperation, frustration and worry played equal parts in Peggy’s voice, and for the umpteenth time Steve felt guilty: for leaving her alone, for making demands of her, for going to her for support for their missions and to share intelligence but offering her no support in return, for not trusting her with the truth about himself. “You’re such a _martyr_. I keep trying to tell you – not everyone can be _saved_!”

_Can I be saved? Do I need to be saved?_

“That’s easy for you to say,” said Steve, more harshly than he meant to.

“No, it’s—”

“Peggy, as your...” _What even are we to each other now?_ “As your _friend_ I’m asking you to drop this. I was fine when I returned from the _Graf Zeppelin_ with my injuries, I was fine when we went through the documents, I was fine when I finally settled down to rest and heal, and I’m fine now. What doesn’t kill me mends, even more quickly than it used to. We have limited time, and more important things to worry about. So—”

“You think your pain is irrelevant?” Peggy interrupted, soft, thoughtful, concerned. Steve grimaced, closed his mouth, licked his lips, counseled himself to patience.

“It _is_ ,” he said. “I know how much I can take and I know how much I’m capable of. Pushing myself to that limit is _practical_ , not...not a ‘cry for help’ and certainly not something for you to worry about, be sympathetic for, or go behind my back to find out about.”

“But—”

“Peggy!” Steve barked her name into the mouthpiece, which popped as the burst of air hit it. He wanted to keep his cool, but she was wasting time. _And getting too close to the things I’m too chicken shit to admit._ Anger tingled through his fingers and he took a deep breath in a bid to quash his rising temper. “I think the Winter Soldier is someone we know.”

“If I can’t trust you to give me accurate assessments of your health and capabilities, I’ll have to continue asking your comrades for the information,” she replied, cool, professional, indifferent to the Winter Soldier. It baffled Steve that _anyone_ could be indifferent to the Winter Soldier, and troubled Steve that something so simple could baffle him, troubled Steve that he placed so much value on the fate of one man. “If you can’t be trusted with this mission, if your judgment is compromised, SSR can’t risk continuing to offer you support.”

“Because SSR has done so much for us?” said Steve, sarcasm twisting the words. “Speaking to Margaret or any of the others about my health because you’ve arbitrarily decided not to trust my opinion of my own health is manipulative. It’s an unwarranted invasion of my privacy. Then, to compound that by blackmailing me with the threat to withhold support? I—”

“That’s _not_ what I meant, but when Philips asks me what I think of—”

“I expected better of you.” Steve’s voice was chill, his ire icy in his gut.

“Steve,” she sighed, a helpless hitch in her voice as she trailed off. “You were on that Hydra ship for what sounds like _hours_ before anyone caught you. You could have blown it out of the water, and instead you stole some documents, let yourself be ambushed, nearly bled to death, and just... _left it_ there, aircraft carrier, airplanes, and all. You didn’t even sabotage the engines! And I’d ask why, but I think we both know why. Who do _you_ think the Winter Soldier is?”

“I haven’t got a clue!” Steve snapped, seething. “What are you getting at?”

“Really?” Disbelief made Peggy’s voice rich, beautiful, more emotionally distant than the two thousand miles physically separating them. “Not a single suspicion?”

“No! That’s what _I_ want to talk about, but you won’t let me! What are you driving at Peggy? Just tell me!”

“Bucky.”

Both arms and all twenty tentacles – the regrown ones still paler and a little shorter than the others, though they’d been darkening day by day – went absolutely still.

“Bucky’s dead,” said Steve numbly.

“I’m aware,” Peggy said. “But sometimes I wonder if you are.”

“Wow,” Steve breathed, shaking his head.

“If you won’t consider the hard questions, I will,” Peggy continued. She sounded like she was steeling herself; Steve could picture her sitting up straighter in her chair, adjusting her skirts, crossing her legs, and giving him that look she had perfected that made her seem ten feet tall even though she was a half-foot shorter than him. “You have _got_ to show some sense! You’ve got to come _home_ , and—”

“And so you throw Bucky in my face?” snarled Steve. She started to speak, but he didn’t give her a chance. “Of all the cruel, unnecessary, _bullshit_ things to do under the guise of _helping me_ – I called you for _advice_ , and for _input_ , and all you’ve done is attack-attack-attack since you picked up the line. What’s gotten _into_ you, Pegs? Did I spit in your cornflakes or something?”

“You _died_!” she shouted back. “And then you came back, except you _didn’t_! Some of us _care_ that you’re not dead, Steve! The world needs you – and not in Siberia trying to save a ghost, but _here_ , with me, helping build the SSR, helping push Stark to focus on something other than weapons, helping rebuild Europe, advising the world governments, fostering the United Nations, leading and protecting and being _Captain America_! There is _so much to do_ and your help would be invaluable and instead you squander _everything_ for...for _nothing_! For the chance that this Winter Soldier and those like him can be _saved_ , when they need to be put down like rabid dogs and you have had _numerous_ opportunities to do so! If I’d known finding you alive would be this...this...this _aggravating_ , I’d never have pushed so hard for us to keep looking!”

“These are men and women who have been tortured, subverted, twisted and used against their will.” Steve gritted out. “Hydra still exists, and we haven’t a clue their reach, power, or goals. If the evidence I’ve sent west isn’t enough to convince you of how dire this threat is, then we’ve got nothing left to talk about.” He paused, and when she didn’t fill the silence, he forced himself to add, “The Peggy I left behind – my best girl – was never this selfish. What _happened_ to you?”

“‘What happened,’” she echoed bitterly. “I lost _everything_ , Steve – not just Bucky and not just you, I lost all the progress and position I’d strived a lifetime for. I’m back to square one, fighting tooth and nail for the right to stand in the room while men who consider themselves better than me deny me the floor, ignore me, or talk over me. I’d forgotten how _maddening_ invisibility is. But you...you don’t see me as...as...as a nice pair of breasts that look good decorating a meeting. You don’t see me as an _object_. If you were here – if you’d come _back_ – I _know_ we could do more good together than either of us can do apart. Stark would help, and the Commandos, and maybe Philips. The Nazi threat, the Imperial Japanese threat, both are gone now, finally, and in their absence all anyone wants to do is move on, rebuild, and forget, but there are new dangers on the horizon and we can see them building, but we can’t _do_ anything because every major power is terrified of the possibility that _they’ll_ be the next ones to trigger apocalypse. No one wants another fight. There _are_ still things worth fighting for, Steve! I can’t stand by and _watch_.”

“Then join me here!” _If Peggy comes here, she’ll see me – see what I’ve become._ “That fight you’re talking about?” _So?_ “That fight you want to get back into?” _I’m more ashamed of my transformation than I realized_. “ _That’s what we’re doing_ , Peggy!” _But I’ve no cause to be..._ “ _That’s_ what you’re already helping with!” _...if I’m truly not ashamed, if I’ve truly no_ cause _for shame, then I need to tell her._ “Is there a greater risk on the planet than the possibility of Hydra rebuilding, unchecked, in a post-war world where no one wants to look too closely at the wrongs of others and everyone is intent on rebuilding?” _Time to put my money where my mouth is._ “Why won’t you _see_ that what you _claim_ you want? That’s _exactly_ what we’re doing here!”

“I _do_ see, but everything you’re doing in Siberia, _we_ could do from _here_! And _better_ : with improved coordinated and international support, with more backing and more resources and more agents! Do you really think Hydra will keep letting you waltz in, steal sensitive documents, and leave again? Every strike you do in the USSR drives them further into hiding, and angers Stalin, and risks war! This _Winter Soldier_ of yours – he’s _not_ Bucky! He’s _no one_! Even if he _was_ someone we know, the person he was before Hydra got to him is long dead, and considering the horrible things that have been done to the Winter Soldier, the horrible things he’s _done_ , that’s a _mercy_. Support you’re right – suppose this man is someone we knew. None of our friends, none of our allies, could live with themselves if they learned they’d murdered innocent men and women at the behest of our enemies. He’s _far_ past saving. You’d see that if you could let go of whatever hope you’re clinging to as regards him. Your idealism is commendable, Steve, but it makes you short-sighted. You’ve had multiple chances to kill him and you haven’t taken them; I’m simply trying to understand _why_. You talk about how you remember me behaving before I left? Well, the Steve I knew, the Steve who died plunging his plane into the Arctic rather than allowing it to hit New York, acted for the _greater_ good, no matter the consequences!”

_She’s got some good points..._

“That’s what I _am_ doing!” said Steve. “Defeating Hydra is the greater good!”

 _...but this is something_ I _can do. If I go home..._

_...what will I be, when I go home? Who will take me seriously? Not Philips. Stark will probably want to study me. I couldn’t bear it if the Commandos flinched every time they looked at me. And you, Pegs..._

“I know you think so,” Peggy sighed. “But I also know they’ve tortured you, they’ve hurt your friends, and they’ve tried to do worse. I don’t blame you for being myopic, in light of what you’ve been through...”

“...but you’re positive I’m being myopic?” said Steve bitterly.

“Yes,” she breathed her agreement so softly he could scarce hear her. “And I commend you for risking your life, but it’s time...it’s time for you and all your friends to come _home_ , Steve!”

_Home?_

Some of the Crew called the Hydra complex home, but Steve didn’t see it that way.

Home evoked Brooklyn, evoked his mother smiling at him whenever she returned from her job, evoked Bucky knocking and giving Steve a cocky wink through the peep hole as if he could sense when Steve arrived on the other side of the door. Home had a tiny bed, bed bugs that had to be hunted down and burned to death one by one using a candle, and chairs tucked so close to the bathtub table that Steve constantly bumped his knees. Home had wash hung on a line over the sink, the regulation single window looked out on a stinking alley, and Steve’s art adorned the wall. Home was Bucky lying in Steve’s bed wearing nothing but a blanket, his bare shoulders painted gold by the lamp light, perfection incarnate, more beautiful than Steve could ever hope to capture on paper. Steve’s heart was in Brooklyn, with Bucky, in that crap excuse for an apartment. Steve had belonged there, been comfortable there, had never found anywhere else where his mere existence was _enough_ and he need do nothing more to prove himself. Home was where Steve found acceptance exactly as he was – exactly as he _had been_ – from his mother and Bucky.

Peggy imagined as Steve’s homecoming, he was sure it wasn’t _that._

Peggy thought he’d be coming back to _her_.

No one else had ever seen him the way his mother and Bucky had, not even Peggy.

Once, home had been wherever they were.

_And now...?_

When Steve tried to picture his future...there was no home for him in Brooklyn, not without Bucky. There was no place for him in the army, no settling back into any version of his old life. He had to live by the ocean now, ideally had to be immersed in saltwater several hours a day, and he would have a fight on his hands convincing anyone _normal_ that he wasn’t a...a...a tentacled _freak_.

_That’s what this is really about, right?_

Silence stretched out between them, only a soft susurration betraying that their connection was active.

 _Argue with her all I want, call her selfish, call her unreasonable, but she_ might _be right. She has a better view of the big picture than I do, a better idea of the threats mobilizing. Thanks to Stark and her continued liaising with SSR, she has access to intelligence that she can’t share outside the organization, surely can’t risk over a channel in danger of infiltration even with the scrambler active._

_But I’m comfortable with who I am now!_

_Even if that’s true, if I go home I will be confronted by every single other human on the planet, every single person who_ hasn’t _escaped from Hydra’s clutches, and I will have to live with their constant, flagrant discomfort._

Carlos’ ship had been and gone three times in the past few months.

The second time, the pirates had caught sight of him and made gestures to ward off evil.

The third time, Carlos had unhappily, in broken English, explained that it would perhaps be better for Steve to stay out of sight.

_Once this is over, once I go “home,” that will be the rest of my life, forever, with every person who sees me. That I accept myself is possibly fatuous, but certainly irrelevant. Right here, right now, I live amidst the only people in the world who can accept me as I am._

_If I can save the Winter Soldier, if I can free the other Hydra prisoners, that increases, however infinitesimally, the number of people with whom I can be myself._

_Even Peggy is no longer on that list. She doesn’t see me as I am._

_Because I haven’t let her._

“They tortured me, Pegs.”

“So you said,” she acknowledged solemnly. At least she was listening again. At least it sounded like maybe they were back to communicating, instead of butting heads over infuriating issues outside of either of their control.

“They, uh...they didn’t want information,” he continued. _Enough secrets_. “Hydra uses their prisoners to conduct science experiments.”

“So I inferred from—”

“Lemme get this out, okay? This, uh, this is damn hard to talk about.”

“Of course – I’m sorry, Steve.”

“They knew who I was – must have known what a prize they’d snared. I don’t know exactly what they did – my memories are a mess and we’ve not found any records Dr. Reinhardt might have kept – but they tested chemicals on me. They...” _Come on, Steve, time to be a damn man about this. If I was half so sanguine as I pretend to be with this change, telling her_ should _be easy_. “They did all kinds of stuff. Most of it doesn’t matter. Key is...first – first they cut slits into the sides of my neck, pumped me full of drugs and filled my lungs with water and kept at it ‘til I was able to breathe.”

_First confession, check!_

He paused, expecting Peggy to interject, but she said nothing.

“So, uh, I have gills. I can breathe underwater. Like a fish. And they did that because...I mean, I don’t know for sure, it’s just a theory...” _Coward_. “...I think they were trying to make me into a symbol. A Hydra symbol. It’s a brilliant idea, right? Transform me into – transform _Captain America_ , icon of freedom and truth and justice and the American way, Uncle Sam with a damn red, white and blue shield— Damn it! They have the shield! How did I _just_ think of that?”

“What did they do to you, Steve?” asked Peggy gently.

“They cut off my legs,” he said, crisply, to the point, forcing himself to separate the words from his memories of the experience. _I’m not Captain America any more, never will be again, and it’s just a shield. It doesn’t matter_. She gasped, horrified. _If she interrupts now..._ In a rush, he continued, “They replaced them. With...with tentacles. They made me into their logo. A kraken. I’m all Steve up top, all squid from the waist down.” He even managed a chuckle.

_There. It’s said. She knows._

_Except I still lied, kind of. I’m not two distinct halves. For whatever reason – Hydra’s experimentation, or the serum, or something, all of me has changed, all of me continues to change...there’s the webbing, the gills, the tattoo, even my ears have changed shape, and my skin is a different color, and my hair is_ way _longer than regulation..._

_...for two years I’ve been surprised when I look in the mirror and see Captain America instead of Steve Rogers. How much weirder will it be when I finally stand before a mirror to see my appearance now?_

_I’ll probably flinch just like the pirates do._

The longer the silence stretched out between them, the more Steve felt compelled to continue speaking. He’d said his piece; all that remained was to learn Peggy’s reaction.

If only she’d _say_ something.

Unable to take the quiet any longer, Steve said, “Hydra seems…fixated…on body modification. This is a stab in the dark but I think it’s because their brainwashing techniques require disconnecting us from our fundamental humanity, and if they can twist our bodies against our will, so much the better – destroying our sense of self and our bodily autonomy furthers that aim. It’s hard to cling to a sense of self when they tear you apart and put you back together. It’s not just me – Sayaana has a metal leg, Margaret’s eye was replaced, and there’s the Winter Soldier’s arm – but you knew that, you’ve seen the documents I sent.” The longer he spoke, the faster the words came, a flood he couldn’t stop, anything to steer Peggy’s unfathomable thoughts in a direction other than imagining Steve’s transformation. “This is what Hydra _does_ to people, Pegs! We can’t leave this be. As I am now, I’m no use anywhere but _here_. If I leave…”

Words failed him.

 _No, words didn’t fail me. I know exactly what I want to say, but it requires that good ol’ Captain Rogers shut his_ Goddamned fly trap _and let Steve admit to some all too human weakness for a change._

“This is still the mission,” said Steve. _Yeah, cause_ that’s _really what needs to be said_. “Hydra _must_ be defeated. Those other dangers you talk, the threats on the horizon – they might be mirages, they might never materialize, but Hydra is a threat _now_ and _I can do this_. _Let_ me do this!”

More silence.

 _I hate this_.

“Christ, Steve,” Peggy murmured.

 _Have I_ ever _heard her swear?_

But she said _nothing_ else.

 _Just_ own it, _Rogers. If I can’t tell Peggy the truth, who can I tell?_

 _No one. As I apparently have to remind_ everyone _, myself included, Bucky is dead. Lydia is right. I can’t just…can’t just hold this in. I have to talk to someone, and since I’ll never have ma or Buck again..._

“Some days I’m not sure any of this is real,” he confessed. His heartbeat sounded loud in his ears. “I… _I_ could be the Winter Soldier. That’s what they were trying to make me into, I’m sure of it. If it were _me_ …” _If that’s me, if this is all some crazy delusion, if I’m sick, if Hydra broke me…_ “…if you found out that Hydra had captured me, broken me, forced me to kill for them...wouldn’t you think I’d deserve to be saved? Wouldn’t you fight for me?”

“Of course I would,” said Peggy softly. There was no inflection, no readable emotion. She wasn’t passionate, enthusiastic, angry, sad…she was tired, resigned maybe.

“I _have_ to believe that I…that _he_ can be saved, that _all_ of us can be saved!” Steve implored. “I’m sorry that I’m not the man you knew, but I’m _not_. I was more than a man after I took the serum, but now I’m…I’m not…Pegs, the war is over and Captain Rogers is dead. I’m just _Steve_ , and…I owe myself this, I owe the prisoners this, and—”

“You don’t need to convince me,” Peggy interrupted, sadness finally evident in her voice. “You’re right. Of course you’re right. You’re always right, even when you’re wrong, and it’s bloody obnoxious. I wouldn’t be angry if…but I’m being selfish. Again. I had no idea what you’d been through but I should have…I _could_ have realized, if I’d thought about it, but I refused to consider...even as much as I know about Hydra’s modus operandi, I still...” Even unseen, her head shake was obvious from the tone of her voice.

“I did _exactly_ what you always do. I assumed you’d taken some injuries, and they were unpleasant – awful, even – but that they’d healed. You _insist_ that the wounds you took on the _Graf Zeppelin_ were as nothing, and even as I argued against you, I believed you – I believed what it was convenient for me to believe. I didn’t want to think you’d changed. But…it’s alright that you’ve changed, Steve. You _are_ still you, and I’ve always thought ‘don’t ever change’ the greatest curse one can bestow on someone they love under the guise of paying a compliment. The world changes around us continually, and we must change with it, adapt to it, learn and grow, affect what we can, accept what we can’t. You’ve done that, while I…I’ve clung to trying to do things the way that previously worked for me. Times have changed. The approach that got me in the boardroom during the war is outdated. The men are home.”

“I’m so sorry,” said Steve. “You know if it were up to me—”

“Stop. I didn’t mean that as an accusation, or an attempt to deflect the conversation back to me. The point is: the world has changed, and you’ve changed, and it’s time I changed too. I’ve tried to help you by using _their_ playbook, even as they’ve refused to so much as let me on the field for the game. And damn, I’m resorting to sports analogies, I’ve clearly spent too much time around men. Steve, the department store doesn’t have my size, so I’m tromping around in a jumper three sizes too small and then complaining even though I’m fully capable of making my own damn dresses. I’m _done_. I’ll talk to Stark – he doesn’t like wearing too-small jumpers either – and see if he’ll chip in for the sewing machine, and if he won’t, I’ll figure it out myself.”

“That analogy…totally lost me,” Steve confessed.

“Good! Now you know how I feel when you start talking about baseball.” God, Peggy sounded like she was _smiling_ , near as pleased as she’d seemed their first conversation, and it warmed Steve through as though the sun had finally come out to warm spring over the Siberian glaciers. “If you won’t come to me, I’ll find a way to support you in Russia – with the help of Howard and the Commandos if possible, without them if I must,” Peggy declared. “We’ll save your friends, Steve. We’ll save your Winter Soldier. And we’ll save you.”

Overwhelming relief crashed around Steve’s shoulders, shocking him, so jubilant and freeing that he could scarce bear the load. A tear leaked from his eye, skimmed down his cheek, and beaded on his chin.

The Crew had managed without her, truly, but he hadn’t realized how much it had weighed on him that his friends’ hadn’t done more in his support, hadn’t realized how much Peggy’s insistence that he was on the wrong path hurt and led him to question himself.

 _And while she was acting like that...she wasn’t Peggy. She’s not_ like _that. That’s such a part of why I doubted myself – because Peggy would help. I couldn’t believe she wouldn’t, so I wondered if maybe this was Hydra twisting me around, subverting me. When the people I know and trust don’t act as they ought, that makes me – rightly! – paranoid._

_And when they prove themselves to be the people I thought them to be..._

“Thank you,” he whispered. “I’m going back to the _Graf Zeppelin_.”

“I know,” she said, smile still evident in her voice. “Do me one favor?”

“Depends on the favor,” Steve replied honestly.

“You don’t have to go in alone, so _don’t_ ,” she said.

“I won’t...I _can’t_ promise that.”

Peggy sighed. “Too much to hope. Take care of yourself, Steve.”

“You too, Peggy.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts on Sunday, June 23rd, 2017.


	13. Chapter 13

_Curiosity brought unexpected warmth to dark eyes, eased the Soldier’s perpetually furrowed brow. Afraid to move a muscle and break the spell holding them in place, Steve watched as the Winter Soldier reached out his metal hand. However it was constructed, the joints were so well-maintained that there wasn’t the faintest squeak, so flexible that it moved like flesh. Steeling himself, Steve resolved not to react no matter how frigid that touch should be when it landed._

_A finger glanced over Steve’s chin._

_The metal was_ hot _. Eyes widening, Steve quashed a startled inhale before it grew too loud. The Soldier’s pointer traced the contour of Steve’s jaw bone, skimmed down the vulnerable soft spots on his neck, pressed down over the line of his clavicle. The hand curled around Steve’s side, heat radiating inward at every touch, and kneaded down Steve’s side, over his darkening flesh, scarce paused where torso split into tentacles. Where once the Soldier had grabbed Steve’s multiple arms, squeezed muscle to pulp, torn limbs free, now he cradled Steve gently, caressed his length, used his hot thumb to give each sucker a tender flick. The metal tasted of antiseptic and oil and steel, but beneath that – beneath what Hydra had tried to_ make _the Winter Soldier – was something musky, aromatic, incredibly, tantalizing human and eerily familiar._

...hands on Bucky’s cheeks...

...legs wrapped around Bucky’s thighs...

...Bucky’s sweat dripping onto Steve’s chest...

...a husky voice whispering breathy endearments in Steve’s ear...

_Steve hadn’t realized the Soldier had, intentionally or otherwise, gravitated to one of Steve’s penises until the grip tightened over the sensitive head of Steve’s cock and pleasure radiated outward. Every place the Winter Soldier had touched Steve tingled, heat transferring and communicating as arousal, as need, as pleasure._

_“You understand,” Steve breathed._

_The Soldier looked up, familiar anger hardening his expression, mask yet covering most of his face, and gave Steve a single firm nod, gave Steve’s cock a single firm stroke. Steve should tell him to stop,_ make _him stop, but it felt good – incredibly good – and not just because he was being touched tenderly, being touched at all after so long so isolated. The Winter Soldier accepted him without question, looked at him without condemnation, admired him unflinchingly, touched him without revulsion._

Who else would do that, save someone who’s been through exactly what I’ve been through – been through all I have been through and more?

 _“You_ do _understand...”_

_Stroke._

_“Why won’t you talk to me?”_

_Stroke._

_“Why won’t you let me help you?”_

_Stroke._

_“Why haven’t you shot me –_ really _shot me?”_

_Stroke._

_“Why did you kill the Hydra soldier who tried to kill me?”_

_Stroke._

_“Why won’t you_ answer _?”_

_Stroke._

_“Who are you?”_

_Stroke._

_“Who are you?”_

_Stroke._

_“Who_ are _you?!”_

_Stroke._

_“Steve.”_

_Stroke._

_“No,_ I’m _Steve!” Stroke. “You’re not, but you know me—” Stroke. “—I know you know me—” Stroke. “—I know I know you!” Stroke. “You’re so familiar!” Stroke. “I see the recognition in your eyes,” stroke, “but—”_

_“Steve!”_

_Stroke._

_“Answer me!”_

_Stroke._

_An intense gaze kept Steve pinned._

_Stroke._

_The urge to reach out, bridge the gap between their bodies, run his fingers through the Soldier’s hair, peel off that uniform and bring pleasure to the man beneath was powerful, but Steve resisted._

_Stroke._

_If he moved...Steve was_ sure _that if he moved, the touches would stop and the Winter Soldier would vanish – no, the Winter Soldier would remain, the murderous automaton made by Hydra, but this man, the human that Hydra had callously destroyed, would be gone, subsumed once more, maybe never to return…_

_Stroke._

_The Winter Soldier’s eyes twinkled, the visible part of his face lifting, growing beautifully lined. Even with the mask covering his nose and face, Steve knew._

_Stroke._

_The Winter Soldier smiled._

_Stroke._

_With a groan, Steve climaxed._

_“Damn it, you idiot, wake up!”_

_Huh?_

A second groan accompanied Steve opening his eyes. The pungent smell of his oily come hit his nose, and he blinked up to see Alison wrinkling her nose and shaking her head.

“Sorry,” mumbled Steve, getting his arms under him. The cold and worry of what he might miss while sleeping in the nearby ocean continued to keep Steve in the base, dry skin be damned. A little discomfort was irrelevant compared to the safety of his compatriots. Semen made a sodden puddle beneath his tentacles and ironically gave a little relief to seared, over-exposed flesh.

“Don’t be,” said Alison. “Mostly just jealous. Haven’t had a dream that good in...years, I’d say. Doubt I ever will again.”

“That...doesn’t help me feel better,” Steve replied, sliding and twisting to get his tentacles onto the floor. He never felt more ungainly than when trying to navigate furniture items meant for humans; some part of his brain still insisted that getting up consisted of, ‘roll onto side, fold at waist, sit up, plant feet on floor, stand.’ The real process of rising was closer to, ‘get all tentacles roughly aligned and facing same direction, convince waist muscles that yes they _should_ be involved even though they don’t technically _have_ to be, splat all tentacles to floor at roughly the same time, decide how tall I want to be today, adjust the curl of my tentacles accordingly, and rise.’

 _Priorities, Steve. This is_ every morning _, get over it already._

_Of course. Right as usual Rogers. I’ll get right on that ‘priorities’ thing._

_Priority: coffee._

_Problem: there is no coffee here. Fucking Hydra heathens._

_Second priority..._

“What’s the deal, Alison? Everything okay?” Rolling upright, Steve noticed Carlos leaning on the door jamb. The cell in which Steve slept was too small to fit three adults.

“Yeah...but no...?” said Alison uncertainly.

“If you don’t know, I sure don’t.”

Carlos gestured Steve into the hallway, and he glided out, Alison on his heels...

_...what heels...don’t have heels anymore…or feet…or legs…how is this still a novelty, it’s been months…_

“Maybe everything is alright…” she tried again, Carlos nodding along

“But maybe no,” chimed in Carlos, glancing over his shoulder. With bilingual Alison there to help him translate, Carlos’ English had improved remarkably. His accent was thick, but his linguistic ability was still incredible; English was Carlos’ fourth language. “Maybe no good. Maybe muy mal.” They took a turn, doorway opening into the long corridor of rooms that had once served as laboratories and now were bunks for the dozen members of the Wrecking Crew.

“Specifics?”

“The Winter Soldier is here,” said Alison.

A punch to the face would have been less surprising than Alison’s calm announcement. Stunned, Steve froze, mortified by the anticipation that burned through him, combined with the after-glow of his wet dream to leave him aching for the touch of metal fingers on his skin.

With a surprised squawk, Alison collided with Steve’s back and _thumped_ to the floor. “What gives?”

Alison, thank fricken _God_ , had no idea of the _specifics_ of Steve’s dream, no idea the images flitting through his head.

“That...that certainly _sounds_ like a problem,” said Steve slowly, forcing himself to catch up with Carlos, who’d only just noticed that Steve and Alison had stopped.

“Yes it does.” Carlos nodded, tone solemn and wise. “But is not.”

Long strides – quick glides? – carried them to the end of the hallway. The door on the far end led into the main storage area, where their damaged locomotive was parked for the winter, where their howitzer, yet untested, was stored, where crates of food and armaments and supplies would hopefully see them through to spring safe and sound and warm and healthy.

“Why not?” asked Steve as Carlos pushed the door open.

When Hydra had kept the base, the crates had been stored messily, in disorganized piles left in the middle of the room, labeled in a half-dozen different languages, boxes of munitions atop boxes of spam atop boxes of shoes too big for any of their feet. With little to occupy the short days and long winter nights, the Crew had opened and organized the room’s contents. They lacked equipment capable of lifting and moving the bulky containers, but Steve and Mei Jiang were strong enough to compensate. Mei Jiang had been petite once, but her arms and legs were those of a man considerably bigger than she, another prisoner, and she’d been heavily dosed with Hydra’s attempt at the serum, too; she was nearly as strong as Steve, probably on par with the Winter Soldier. Now, everything was stacked along the walls, like supplies with like, opening up a ton of space. Once, opening the door introduced a view of Nazi-emblem-stamped wood mere feet away; now there was a clear view across the room to the bay doors, yet warped and shattered from when the Crew drove the locomotive straight through them and into the building. The cracks had only been a problem for the first few days; after that, snow had buried the worst of it, providing excellent insulation.

Until now.

Limpid blue sky shone through the fractures, a perfect backdrop to silhouette every split and tear and outline a person standing in the doorway. As dark as they were contrasted with the daylight beyond, there was no seeing what they wore, no identifying gender or expression, not even a glimmer to betray the metal arm.

Despite that, Steve was _sure_ it was the Winter Soldier, and not just because Carlos and Alison had said it was.

Who else could it be? Who else would show up on their figurative doorstep in the dead of winter? Who else would Hydra send who wouldn’t attack immediately?

_If Hydra even has any other cold-resistant, super strong agents. I’m starting to suspect the Winter Soldier is it, that he’s their ace in the hole. Given how consistently he’s failed to either kill or capture me, surely if they had someone else waiting in the wings they’d have sent that person by now. But instead they keep sending the Soldier, and he keeps failing…_

_…unless there’s some method to his attacks that’s beyond me, and somehow our cat-and-mouse game is meeting some bizarre rubric of success in Hydra’s eyes?_

_I’ll probably never know._

_Unless I figure out a way to save him, and he tells me…_

A cold breeze swirled around Steve’s tentacles and gusted into the hallway behind. Steve didn’t realized he’d stopped moving until Alison gave him a gentle nudge – _okay, no, from her that was actually a damn hard nudge but, ya know, I’ve got super strength_ – and he forced himself into motion, side-stepping into the warehouse. His eyes never left the Soldier. Though easily a hundred feet separated them and the backlighting made the Soldier’s face a dark smudge against the day time, Steve was _sure_ the Soldier stared back at him.

“So, have at,” said Alison cheerfully.

“That’s it?” asked Steve.

“What’s ‘it?’” Carlos countered, baffled.

“He’s just... _standing_ there?”

“Ayup.” Alison shrugged. “The bay doors made this screeching sound, told us something wonky was goin’ on, so we checked it out, and there he was – lover boy himself.” Gesturing toward the Soldier, Alison gave Steve a grin and a wink and his stomach twisted.

_How do they know...they don’t know, they can’t know, they just know I’m fixated on him, and suspect he’s fixated on me, and..._

Steve glided forward, blinking to accustom his eyes to the sharp brightness and the stark contrasting shadows painted across the warehouse floor. The Soldier appeared to be unarmed; no rifle made a thin profile at his side, no gun stock made the silhouette of his shoulder blocky, no knife made a tell-tale bulge around his waist. Nonetheless, Steve was cautious, hesitant. Even unarmed, the Soldier was a deadly combatant, and just because the Soldier hadn’t seriously hurt Steve yet...

_...he’s stabbed me repeatedly, shot me repeatedly, ripped of my tentacles, collapsed my lung...!_

_Yes, but he knows I can heal those injuries. He never ripped off my tentacles until after I did so myself as a tactic in battle. He still has atrocious aim when shooting at me, even though he’s a flawless marksman when he conducts assassinations. He_ killed _, flat out murdered, the one person – supposedly on the same side as he! – who came within a hairs-breadth of doing me actual harm..._

 _...but_ just because the Winter Soldier hadn’t seriously hurt Steve in their past encounters didn’t mean he’d continue to pull his punches going forward. Past performance was no guarantee of future ambivalence. However gone Steve was on the guy – _oh yeah, Steve, you’re sure_ something _on him_ – he wouldn’t take that chance.

_I’m too needed here, too needed to fight against Hydra…_

_…and if they capture me again…_

Steve didn’t want to think about how awful it would be to fall into Hydra’s clutches once more.

 _But everything I fear they’d do to me? They_ are _doing to him. I’ve_ got _to get through to him! I’ve got to convince him to stay with us. I’ve got to save him._

“We won’t attack you,” Steve called, voice made dull by the vastness of the empty space. “We’ll help you!” The Soldier didn’t react, didn’t move, hadn’t budged since Steve arrived. “We’ll protect you from Hydra.” Wind whistled through the cracked metal, stirred dark tresses around the Soldier’s face, but aside from the wisps trailing over his cheeks he might have been carved from ice. “Who are you?” Steve didn’t bother trying multiple languages. “Why are you here?” The Soldier hadn’t shown the least sign of understanding any of the tongues Steve had tried, so it scarce seemed worth switching from English.

“Do you—”

“I...”

Steve snapped his mouth shut so fast he nipped his tongue – his teeth had been getting sharper of late and _no, Steve, damn it_ focus _did he speak or did I imagine that_...

The Soldier lifted his metal arm, light catching on the ridges and twinkling glaringly bright, and wrapped his fingers around the twisted edges of the sundered metal gap through which he’d entered. His right foot swept the floor before him; he rocked forward, then settled back on his left heel. Steve stopped, tentacles quivering with the desire to advance, but he restrained himself. Scant feet separated them. A glance over his shoulder showed him Alison and Carlos hanging back, still near the door. Carlos hunched in his coat; Alison’s sleeved arms were wrapped over her chest, her hands tucked beneath her armpits. It didn’t feel cold to Steve, and clearly it didn’t feel cold to the Soldier.

_How much have they changed him? How much is left of the man he used to be?_

_I want to know. I want to know everything._

“I don’t...know...” The balaclava stretched and tugged as he spoke.

_At least he speaks English. He’s understood me all this time, but never chose to reply before. What’s different today? Why isn’t he attacking? Why is he here?_

_Did Hydra send him? Or did he somehow come on his own?_

The confusion in the Soldier’s tone was mirrored in his dark eyes. The Soldier’s voice was low, masculine, gravelly and hoarse as if long disused...

_...or as if his throat is damaged from screaming..._

“That’s fine...that’s okay.” Steve advanced another tentative foot. “You don’t have to know...anything, really. Maybe we can just...talk?”

“Talk?” The Soldier mimicked Steve’s inflection, tilting his head to the side. Locks of hair swayed into his face, but they might as well have been invisible, for the Soldier didn’t try to move them, and the intensity of his gaze didn’t waver.

 _It doesn’t matter if he’s armed. With his strength and speed, his body is a weapon. And that arm...that arm might be capable of anything, might hide a weapon, certainly_ is _a weapon...this could be a trap, another tactic, another ploy to—_

_If it is, I’ll fight him, so shut it Rogers. No one wants to hear your bullshit professional opinion of this entirely screwed up situation. I’m not going to initiate combat with the Soldier. Let him turn this into a brawl, if he wants, and if he would rather talk…_

“My name is Steve,” Steve said, lifting his arms slowly, spreading them in welcome, forcing his fingers to unclench so the Soldier would see he held no weapon.

 _Of course, I don’t need a weapon either_.

“You’re Prisoner 05641,” said the Soldier, detached, mechanical. “You’re my mission.” The more the Winter Soldier spoke, the more eerily familiar his damaged voice seemed. Not being able to place the voice, not being able to correlate the body shape to anyone he’d known, was going to be Steve’s damn cause of death.

_Driven mad by the recognition that’s right at the tip of my damned tongue yet forever out of reach._

“Destroying Hydra is my mission,” offered Steve. “They don’t own us – they don’t control us. We can still make choices. I’ve chosen not to kill you and you...you’ve chosen to come here today...?”

“No!” snarled the Soldier. “You’re my...” Dropping into a defensive posture, the Soldier’s fingers tore into the corrugated metal of the door, the material shrieking in his grip. “You’re my...!” Alison gave a frightened squeak, something made a click suspiciously like a gun being cocked, and Steve reached behind himself to make a frantic discouraging gesture. “You’re my _target_.”

“Is that what you want, Soldier?” Steve asked.

The Winter Soldier froze, breathing hard, wind stealing the steam from before his face and swirling it out through the gap. Overhead, metal whined on metal as something shifted but didn’t give, and a stream of snow sifted down, making a white mist that obscured the Soldier’s face. The Hydra logo on his chest caught the light and seemed to move and flow like blood.

“What did you call me?”

“We don’t know your name, so we call you the Winter Soldier,” Steve explained. “You’re right, Hydra did designate me as Prisoner 05641 – _Subject_ 05641 – but that’s not my name.” _They showed him my picture, surely my name must mean_ something _to him_. “My name is Steve Rogers...” _Come on, snap out of it – you know me, whoever you are,_ you know me _, and I_ will _know you!_ “Captain.” _Fight it – fight them._ “United States Army—”

“ _No_!” the Soldier roared. Metal crumpled in his grip, a section of the bay doors fragmented in his hand, and he hurled it toward Steve, jagged edge whistling through the air. Flattening himself to the ground, Steve dodged. A shriek and a scuffle behind him spoke to his friends hopefully getting out of the way.

“Captain Steve Rogers,” Steve repeated emphatically, holding the Soldier’s stare. “United States Army. Service Number 01895816—”

“Stop... _stop_...!” The Soldier lunged forward. Steve’s tentacles rose defensively and Steve warily glided back before he could stop himself, instincts demanding he defend himself. No attack came, though; the Winter Soldier slammed to his knees on the ground, his metal fingers digging into the poured concrete with a grating sound. Stone fractured, fissures making a mosaic around him.

_I’m getting through…I must be…keep pushing him, making him resist his mental conditioning, or…?_

The Soldier dropped his head, snorting and grunting like a bull about to charge, steam like smoke huffing from his mouth, but he didn’t advance. Steve spared a glance behind him. Alison and Carlos were gone, the chunk of metal embedded in the far wall. The door leading to the rest of the complex was closed, so either they’d shut it behind them or they’d found someplace to hide amidst the scant coverage in the storage area. Either way, they were out of immediate danger, and Steve saw no evidence they’d been injured.

_…so I can goad him without endangering them…_

_The cracks in Hydra’s brainwashing technique are showing, breaking as the shoddily poured concrete is breaking under the Winter Soldier’s grip. Time to push…maybe, just maybe, I can shatter their hold…_

“Are you Subject 03412?” Steve demanded.

“No!” the Soldier shouted. “I’m…I’m…” A handful of concrete pulverized to dust in his hand, and to Steve’s amazement the Soldier’s head jerked up, eyes wide and fearful and lined with tears. “Yes, I’m Subject 03412,” he whispered miserably, dropping his gaze respectfully. “Heil Hydra.”

“What’s your name?” asked Steve.

“Subject 03412,” said the Soldier.

“My name is _Steve Rogers_ ,” said Steve.

“Subject 05641!”

“What’s your _name_?”

“03412!” The last two numbers, the Soldier slipped into accented Russian.

He sounded _terrified_.

Dropping his defensive tentacles, Steve dropped to the floor opposite his…comrade? Opponent? Potential future companion? This was their first conversation, yet Steve felt he knew the Winter Soldier, _must_ know the Winter Soldier. He didn’t want this to be their last conversation.

“You know me,” said Steve, a catch in his voice. “You—”

“Yes. You are Subject 05641. My mission is subdue, contain, and capture. I am Subject 03412 and—”

“My name is Steve Rogers, and you _have_ a name, and _you know me_! Look at me!”

“No!”

“Subject 03412, _look at me_!” Steve imbued his voice with command.

_Treating him like an object…trying to break him…I’m no better than Hydra…_

The Soldier looked up, flinched, looked up again and hunched his shoulders in an effort to appear smaller. “Yes, sir.” Meekness did not sit lightly on the Soldier’s muscular frame, and was the harder to watch for that. Whatever the Soldier thought about to happen, he was terrified. _That’s my fault. I did that to him._

 _…no, this is different, I’m doing this to_ help _him. Once he realizes this isn’t a Hydra trap…_

Dark pupils shrank and dilated as the Winter Soldier stared and reassumed his mask. Though he’d worn his balaclava throughout, Steve had seen in glimpses of the _prisoner_ within the Soldier, but faced with Steve’s assertion of command the emotion drained from the Soldier’s eyes, replaced by neutrality, impassivity, carefully practiced. This response, this expression, this submissiveness, was how the Soldier felt he had to behave to protect himself from Hydra’s machinations.

 _…this_ isn’t _a Hydra trap, right?..._

“Who am I?” Steve asked.

_…if he can internalize that I’m not one of them, I’m not part of what they’ve done to him, then he’ll be more comfortable, he’ll open up, maybe he’ll tell me—_

“Subject 056…4…” The Soldier’s gaze came into focus, meeting Steve’s, and he said, “You’re Steve Rogers, Captain, United States Army.”

“Do you know me?”

Steve glided a step forward.

“Yes. You’re my mission.”

“Nothing else?”

Steve glided a step forward.

“Nothing exists except my mission.” Gazes still locked, the Soldier’s pupils flickered into focus, his shoulders slumped, then his stance firmed into military precision once more.

“Aboard the _Graf Zeppelin_ , why did you kill the man who tried to shoot me?”

Steve glided a step forward.

“I…I don’t know.” A faint shake of his head set lank hair brushing over the Soldier’s cheeks.

“Why have you failed to capture me?”

Steve glided a step forward.

“Because you’re a superior combatant.” The line sounded rehearsed, and an unpleasant tingle trailed down Steve’s spine as he realized that if Steve was right, if the Winter Soldier had been pulling his punches against Steve all along, then the man’s superiors had likely asked the same questions, demanded the same explanations. If Hydra suspected the Winter Soldier hadn’t tried his hardest…he suspected they’d punish failure excessively.

 _And he risked that punishment, faced the consequences, for me. He wouldn’t do that for no reason. He wouldn’t do that if he didn’t_ care _._

“Bullshit. Why have you failed to capture me?”

Steve glided a step forward.

“I don’t know.” The Soldier took a defensive step back, but his eyes never left Steve, his _focus_ never left Steve. He was listening, really listening, his answers growing more _real_ , his voice more human, the harder Steve pushed.

“Why did you come here today?”

Steve glided a step forward.

“To subd…no, no, I don’t know.” The self-interruption was achingly familiar, the initial words harsh, the interjection unsure, insecure.

_He’s compartmentalized to cope, just like I have…_

“Why haven’t you shot me?”

_…God, we’re so much alike…I have to save him, save both of us…_

Steve glided a step forward.

“I have – I _have_ shot you!” the Soldier spluttered, more off balance than Steve had heard him yet. Shaking his head more forcefully, the Soldier took another step back, boot heel catching on the hole he’d clawed into the floor.

“Ineffectively, but with perfect accuracy!” Steve snapped. “Why. do. you. keep. missing?”

Steve glided a step forward.

“I don’t know – I don’t know!” The Soldier’s hands clenched and unclenched, his expression frightened, vulnerable.

This was the closest they’d been without actively fighting, the first time Steve was truly at liberty to examine the Soldier’s features. They were familiar, eerily so, maddeningly so, but Steve couldn’t place them.

_If he wasn’t wearing the mask…_

Reaching out, scarce thinking what he did, Steve brushed a finger over the Soldier’s chin. The material of the mask was stiff like leather, cold to the touch, inhuman. The Soldier stared, breaths coming too quickly, hair swaying though the air was still.

 _He’s so frightened he’s shaking_.

“What are you afraid of?” asked Steve gently.

“I don’t know…” the Soldier managed in a raspy whisper.

“I won’t hurt you,” Steve promised.

“Everything hurts me.” Steve’s heart ached for the Soldier’s sincerity, fear, and repressed pain.

_As I thought, as I insisted all along, he is just like us. He deserves a chance to heal and recover, he deserves to be saved from the hell that Hydra has thrown him into. I’ll not leave him to the dogs._

“Who are you?” Steve knew it was the wrong question the instant it left his lips – chastised himself, but it was too late.

“I don’t…” The Winter Soldier trailed off, shook his head, and that glimmer of humanity, of awareness, of consciousness, faded. “Subject 03412.”

Metal fingers closed, vise like, around Steve’s wrist. Though he knew better, he _should_ have known better, Steve squawked in surprise as the Winter Soldier wrenched Steve’s hand from his face and lashed out with a kick. The Soldier had always been faster than Steve, but now his movements defied Steve’s ability to follow them; he lashed out with a fist, a kick, a twist, a dodge, driving Steve back from him.

_But he could have done worse…_

Slow to react, Steve sluggishly got his arms up, got a tentacle in position block, stepped back, stepped back, and tried to get his thoughts to engage.

 _…he could have killed me, or incapacitated me,_ easily _in that instant. He_ could _have fulfilled his mission._

_He_

_Does_

_Not_

_Want_

_To._

With an animalistic snarl that caught in his throat, the Winter Soldier drove Steve back, drove him back, froze, stared, turned, and fled.

Stunned, Steve watched him go. Pain throbbed through his wrist, dark bruises already forming, blue and purple reminiscent of the shade of Steve’s tentacles.

_I just…let him go._

_Damn it, what’s the_ matter _with me?_

_I should—_

“Is he gone?” Alison called from behind him. Tentacles primed to speed him after the Winter Soldier, Steve tottered and swayed as he turned, limbs beneath him compensating for his unsteadiness and catching him. Alison peeked out around the door frame, one hand holding the door open; Carlos stood over her, gun in hand, watching warily. Behind them, Steve could make out the shapes of other people but couldn’t tell who they’d roused.

He glanced back toward the door, breeze rough against his skin

_I could still…_

_…let it go…there’ll be no catching him now. He’s faster than me._

“Shit,” Steve snapped, slapping a tentacle against the ground. “Fucking _hell_! Yes, he’s gone, and I still don’t know _shit-all_ about him!”

“Fuck,” Carlos agreed, nodding.

“Are you hurt?” asked Margaret, shoving past the other two and approaching him. Her tone and comportment left no doubt that she thought he was, and thought he’d resist her attempts at treatment.

“No!” Ignoring him, Margaret seized his hand, scowled at the bruise encircling on his wrist, and looked him over. “I’m not,” Steve insisted, snatching his arm from her grasp. “I’m _really_ not. He could have killed me and instead…”

“He cracked the cement,” said Alison, awed. “Damn, we should have stayed. That must have been one hell of a fight.”

“We didn’t…” Steve grimaced as Margaret circled him, then surrendered. She wouldn’t let up until she was sure he wasn’t lying about his physical state; the sooner he conceded, the sooner she’d realize he was telling the truth for once. “We didn’t fight.” _If that wasn’t a fight, what was it?_ “We…we _talked_. _He_ talked.”

“¿En Inglés?” asked Carlos.

“Sí, yes, he speaks English, and Russian, and we talked, and no, I didn’t find out who he was.” Now that the Soldier was gone, Steve’s thoughts raced. _Should have asked him this – that – the other – should have tried this approach – should have used my tentacles to tangle him and capture him and worried about communication later – should have – should have…_ Words poured from him so quickly they flowed together. “We talked and he was upset and God Hydra did a _number_ on him and at least I was able to confirm that he _is_ Prisoner 03412 and shit but calling me by name seemed to cause him physical pain and I don’t know what it means, I don’t know what _any_ of it means, and—”

“ _Breathe_ , Steve!” Margaret barked. Behind Carlos and Alison, others entered the room – Lydia, watching him wide-eyed; Alfons, yawning; Mayeso looking fresh and awake as he always did, side effect of whatever Hydra had done to him – and Steve jerked his head back as he forced himself to inhale. Cold air rasped rough through his throat as Mayeso brushed by him and headed outside. A flicker of panic brought him back to being 15 and collapsing after four bullies jumped him, and he couldn’t breathe, he _couldn’t_ , asthma blocked his throat as surely as if he was choking, and if Bucky hadn’t been with him…

_…but I’m not that boy any longer. I no longer get asthma attacks, and Bucky will never save me again._

_…because I couldn’t save him…_

“What’s this?” called Mayeso in accented French.

Hydra had injected Mayeso with every chemical they could concoct that _might_ replicate Dr. Erskine’s serum. They’d failed. He hadn’t gained strength, nor did he heal rapidly, nor had his personality been substantially affected – or so he said – but he was impervious to the cold, didn’t need to sleep, and never grew winded. His dark skin gleamed in the light, stood out against the backdrop of snow and pale blue, only his hand visible as he gestured through the rend in the doors. Of those in the room, only Steve and Lydia spoke French; as Lydia translated, Steve sped forward, heart rate still through the roof, thoughts still racing. Mayeso leaned over a disturbed mound of snow, brushing flakes off something off-white – a manila folder. The cold was so extreme that even the warmth of Mayeso’s fingers didn’t melt the flakes and the paper remained dry.

“05641,” Mayeso read off the tab.

“It’s me,” said Steve numbly. “The Winter Soldier came all the way here to bring me…me.”

“Who _is_ he?” asked Mayeso, awed.

“I don’t know.” Steve shook his head. “But damn if I wouldn’t give _anything_ to find out.”

* * *

There was some archive on the _Graf Zeppelin_ that Steve hadn’t found, or some unknown Hydra facility where documents were kept.

_I have to find them._

The folder that the Winter Soldier had brought contained a day-by-day description of the “treatments” and “experiments” to which Steve had been subjected, as the other folders had. There was nothing unexpected there; Steve had been unconscious for some, aware for some, and remembered far more than he’d wanted to. He’d seen the pictures, and reading his file was horrifying enough that he was profoundly grateful that he didn’t carry those memories. There was a world of difference between reading a clinical description of his torment and the visceral memories of how the torture had felt. Steve remembered _plenty_.

The folder also contained analysis and annotations in Reinhardt’s handwriting. The notes confirmed Steve’s suppositions without adding much new information, which was heartening: that Steve’s body had adapted to treatments remarkably well, that they’d struggled to find a sedative that he’d respond to for more than a day or two, that all the experimentation they’d done had been with the goal of making him into the kraken. After meticulously slitting his neck to build his gills, they’d found the extra work they’d done unnecessary given how quickly and effectively he healed, so instead of replicating their care with his kraken limbs, testing and refining and taking things slow, they’d gone in whole-hog and committed to the deed. They hadn’t even bothered to reconnect his circulatory system after sawing him in half. What Steve remembered was precisely what had happened: they’d anesthetized him, cut his legs off, and sewed his skin to the tentacle skin. Their strategy, apparently, had been “hope like hell it works and if not we’ll cut the tentacles back off and hope his legs regrow.”

Thank God his body hadn’t rejected the tentacles.

And, hey, he had blood flow, he had regenerative abilities, he had neural control, he had feeling and taste, he could urinate, and presumably he could still have sex, so Hydra had been right. Steve _could_ heal from their inept, lazy attempt at surgery.

Heck, Reinhardt sounded _smug_ in his interjections, as if Steve’s latent abilities to fix what Hydra had screwed up had been the result of some grand, intentional plan.

 _Assholes_.

Comparable information about the other Hydra prisoners must be _somewhere_. There must be a second folder for the Winter Soldier, folders for those of his friends for whom they’d yet found nothing, folders where Reinhardt drew conclusions based on Hydra’s “research.” The paper on which the lab results were written was a cheaper texture than that which Reinhardt used, and rips spoke to Reinhardt’s documents being torn from another source and added to the folder already containing the neatly collated daily log of Steve’s tortures. The information existed _somewhere_ , Steve just had to find it.

The folder filled in the gaps in Steve’s understanding of what had been done to him, how and why he’d been tortured, and even provided some of the science behind the treatments he’d been subjected to. Doodles that Steve recognized as molecular structures without being able to interpret them broke up paragraphs of text that used German so esoteric that, despite his fluency, Steve had no idea what Reinhardt was talking about. Even Alfons didn’t recognize much of the specialized terminology.

“I think he’s invented at least a quarter of those words,” Alfons complained ruefully when he gave Steve back the folder.

All in all, Steve had far fewer questions about what had been done to him and why. Maintaining the veneer of being a good scientist, Reinhardt had stated his goals clearly and concisely at the beginning of the file he’d kept.

_Subject 05641 is the only living person who has taken Dr. Abraham Erskine’s medication._

_Goal 1: Analyze 05641’s capabilities._

_Goal 2: Replicate Dr. Erskine’s formula._

_Goal 3: Convert 05641 into the ideal Hydra agent._

For every question that the folder had answered about Steve, Steve had two new questions about the Winter Soldier.

_Who is he?_

_How does he know me?_

_Why did he bring me this?_

_How did he shake off Hydra’s treatments?_

_How can I save him?_

_Where can I obtain comparable information about him?_

The last, at least, Steve knew the answer to.

Steve left the file about him atop the crate containing the mass of documents that needed to be returned to Europe the next time Carlos’ ship could break through the ice encasing the shore. Lydia, Steve and the others had read through everything, gleaned what they could, kept the few things relevant to them but likely irrelevant to SSR, and the rest could be left to the experts. The schematics in particular needed to be brought west. Takumi and Alison had scarce been able to make heads or tails of them, but Alison thought they were related to the horrific room that they’d found in the last Hydra base, and Margaret had suggested, with her knowledge of biology, that some of the language suggested a neurobiologist might be of aid in understanding the documents. The room _might_ be linked with brainwashing, and the documents _might_ pertain to the room.

Steve needed more information, always needed more information, about Hydra, about their technology, about Reinhardt’s work, about the Winter Soldier and what had been done to him.

Steve _had_ to return to the _Graf Zeppelin_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts on Tuesday, June 27th, 2017.
> 
> Also, I gave Steve my grandfather's WW2 service number. I'm sentimental. Sorry. (And I [wrote a Tumblr post about it, because I can](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com/post/162237674168/after-my-grandfather-volunteered-to-serve-in-world).
> 
> Thank you for bearing with me through all of Steve's denseness. I promise, you won't have to wait much longer. <3


	14. Chapter 14

_“Absolutely not!”_

The Siberian coast was barren and frozen, the calendar hung by the radio at their co-opted Hydra base the only hint that spring approached.

_“You’re not going alone!”_

The depths of January and February had frozen even the Wrecking Crew’s efforts. The only Hydra stronghold they knew the location of was the _Graf Zeppelin_ , and there was no attacking the aircraft carrier with the temperatures so low. Stepping outside was dangerous, too cold no matter how they bundled up. Even Mayeso preferred to stay in.

_“Be reasonable, Steve!”_

Steve could tolerate the cold. Mostly. He couldn’t stay put, couldn’t stay still. The Winter Soldier was out there, in danger, and Hydra was planning who-knew-what, maybe taking more prisoners, hurting more people, creating new Winter Soldiers.

_“We out-number you.”_

The more time Hydra had to work without harassment, the more dangerous they became. As long as Steve stuck to the water as much as possible, he was safe outside, and he could do what needed to be done: return to the aircraft carrier, work to incapacitate it, do _anything_ pretend that his sole preoccupation was the Winter Soldier.

_“We’ll stop you!”_

Breaking through the ice, he explored the coast between the Crew’s home-base and the _Graf Zeppelin_.

 _“You_ can’t _stop me, and honestly I’d prefer you not try. You’re my friends and I don’t want to hurt you.”_

Now that Steve had a sense of the layout of the ship, the crew complement, and the weaponry available to fend him off, he could concoct a plan, for taking out the engines, for tracking down the Winter Soldier. He’d seen a lot of the ship, knew where crew quarters, supplies, engines, labs, and equipment were. He also had a mental map of where he _hadn’t_ explored, areas where prisoners might be berthed, could bee-line to the areas he’d yet to check for sensitive intelligence.

 _“Exactly! Steve, if any one man can defeat Hydra, it’s you, but you don’t_ have _to do it alone. If you die doing this…”_

Last time, Hydra had been unprepared, disorganized. Despite the previous Wrecking Crew attacks, they’d thought their ship either undiscovered or impervious. Now they knew better. They’d be on the alert.

 _“Come off it. You guys are_ amazing _. If the worst should happen, you’ll manage fine without me.”_

The Soviet defense perimeter was abandoned – for the winter or permanently, Steve wasn’t sure – and at regular intervals, coves and spits of land supported small bunkers. Each was near identical to the first Steve had discovered, his home those first few lonely weeks of freedom. All that changed from outpost to outpost was how damaged they were and how accessible they were. A polar bear had taken up winter lodging in one; another, the pile of rocks on which it had been built had crumbled into the sea and the bunker had tumbled with them, half-underwater, walls cracked. Some, all the supplies had been taken; others, the inhabitant might have only stepped out for a moment, and the bed hadn’t even been made. In all, Steve knew of 10, each barely in sight of the next if he knew where to look.

_“Oh yeah, so amazing you refuse to even consider bringing us with you.”_

Two more wrecks dotted the coast beneath the water. One, Steve mistook for a skeleton of some great beast when he first glimpsed it amidst the glittering swirls of plankton. Jagged shafts of wood curled up from the sea floor, covered in plant life, tips bleached gray by long exposure. The other Steve thought maybe vintage World War 1, metal rusted and pocked, hollowed like a carapace. Both were abandoned shells, anything useful long turned to sodden nothing by the action of water and wildlife.

_“That’s not what I mean and you know it!”_

Every sign of humanity, every cave, every niche, Steve made note of and added to his detailed mental map of under and above the water. If he was pursued, he might need someplace hidden, someplace protected that the Winter Soldier or other Hydra agents couldn’t reach. That might be underwater, or in a bunker, or elsewhere.

_“Steve, you’re too sensible not to see how insane you’re behaving!”_

Steve and Margaret had been given gills; there might be others like them as well, and Steve would be wise to take nothing for granted. Speed and strength could be granted by Hydra’s poisons. Cold resistance meant others could potentially withstand the searing winds or the frigid waters. And if anyone else had Mayeso’s tirelessness, if Steve stopped to rest someplace inadequately sheltered, he might wake to find himself Hydra’s prisoner once more. Considering the range of abilities that Steve knew about, there was scant guessing what else surviving Hydra prisoners might be capable of. Steve had to be prepared for anything, up to and including another kraken.

_“There’s nothing crazy about wanting to stop Hydra!”_

Peggy and Star could do nothing to help him, not openly, not yet.

 _“Right, ‘cause everything you’re doing is about stopping Hydra. Don’t try to pretend. We know better. Why is_ one man _so important?”_

Given Hydra’s extensive facilities, the expensive infrastructure they’d constructed, the equipment they had access to, and the amount of territory over which they’d spread, the circumstantial evidence _strongly_ suggested that Hydra operated with Stalin’s blessing. 

 _“I don’t know! Okay? I have no idea why the Winter Soldier matters! I just know that he_ does _!”_

The _Graf Zeppelin_ was anchored in sight of a relatively intact bunker. That, taken with all the rest, constituted proof as far as Steve was concerned.  The aircraft carrier _might_ have arrived after the Soviet soldiers left the lookout post. Steve knew first hand that the bunkers were abandoned in November, before the coast was ice-bound. Steve didn’t buy it, though. Stalin was too clever to miss something this big happening under his nose, too smart to pass up an opportunity to benefit from the destruction of Hydra’s facilities in Europe, too wily to leave a trail that could be traced back to him.

_“Fine. You’re right. We can’t stop you. But you watch your ass out there, okay?”_

A week ago, the Winter Soldier had assassinated a woman in Oslo. Peggy had begrudgingly admitted that the victim was a British spy making her way back with intelligence about Stalin’s plans. There was no reason to think Hydra invested in her death, no way to explain her murder unless the USSR had a part in it.

_“And if you can’t bring your Winter Soldier back, you at least make sure you come back. We need you. The world needs you.”_

Peggy had counseled Steve to wait until spring. Stark would help, she promised, she just needed time.

 _“He’s not_ my _Winter Soldier.”_

The members of the Wrecking Crew had agreed.

_“Yes, he is.”_

The Winter Soldier’s brainwashing was cracking, but Hydra was ruthless. They had the tools, the ability, and the willingness to break the Soldier again, again and again, however many times they had to until there was nothing left of the person he’d once been. Steve wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ , let that happen, to the Winter Soldier or anyone.

_“….yeah. I guess he is.”_

It had been two weeks since the Soldier attacked…no, _visited_ …their home base and left Steve’s file.

Anything could have happened to him since then.

Steve _had_ to get him away from Hydra.

_When did the Winter Soldier become your mission, Steve? Overthrowing Hydra is the goal, not rescuing one man!_

_Get this, Rogers, I’m capable of multitasking! I’m capable of caring deeply about more than one cause at a time! If I can save the Winter Soldier, imagine what he can tell us of Hydra. He can_ help _, if we give him the chance_.

_But even if he can’t be reached, he deserves to live and die a free man, deserves the chance to choose for himself._

After his argument with Alison, Lydia, Margaret, and Carlos, Steve had sat on the roof and sketched. Nothing calmed him like holding a pencil in his hand. As he finished each picture, he let the billowing wind snag it and carry it away.

Maybe the Winter Soldier would find it.

_He saved that picture I drew of Bucky, took it back to the ship with him, and Hydra had seized it yet kept it in his folder._

_What does it all_ mean _?_

At dusk, Steve sped to the edge of the ice crust and dove amidst the floes into the sea, lightly burdened with a length of rope and an axe.

And now...

Underwater landmarks helped Steve steer to the _Graf Zeppelin’s_ anchorage. Above the surface, above the crust that separated land and sea, the day had been overcast, dark gray clouds skittering north-to-south across the sky, but the climate beneath the ice-bound waves never changed.

The axe wasn’t heavy but it made an awkward weight between Steve’s shoulders, sharpened blade skimming Steve’s skin with every stroke of his arms. Water whooshed around him, currents tugging his tentacles willy-nilly. Calculation and experimentation suggested he swam roughly thirty miles an hour, and his best estimate of the time it took him to travel to the ship suggested it was around a hundred miles north and east of their base of operations. If he recalled correctly, the _Graf Zeppelin_ was faster than he, and could be on their doorstep in under three hours, should the ice break. Not that Hydra would need to sail anywhere to launch an attack. Once the weather warmed, the planes parked on the flight deck could cover the distance in less than half an hour and bomb them to smithereens.

The Crew _had_ to sink the ship before spring came, but warm weather was still months away. They had time to plan, to gather more information, to hope that Peggy could rally them allies. There was no knowing how many Hydra agents had infiltrated governments east and west, north and south, no knowing how many more facilities Hydra commanded, no knowing the extent of Hydra’s collaboration with Stalin. Suspicions were helpful, but Peggy and Stark needed written proof to present to Truman and Attlee and Mao and the other world leaders.

If Steve played his cards right, he _might_ be able to steal that proof on this mission, but he wasn’t optimistic, and he’d given up pretending that was his primary goal. Not like he was fooling anyone, least of all himself.

_As long as Hydra ends up destroyed, I can allow myself this obsession._

_Thanks, Rogers, that’s so gracious of you._

Anticipation had made the day drag, made the swim endless. So long seemed to pass between Steve catching sight of the navigational landmarks he used that he worried more than once that he’d gotten lost, but every time it proved to be merely his anxious thoughts swirling even more quickly and powerfully than the currents, distracting him and diluting his sense of the passage of time. The water was deep, and unless Steve stuck close to the surface or close to the bottom, he could see nothing, for with no obstructions to roil the eddies, even the plankton didn’t glow and the depths were as dark as oblivion. The configuration of the surface crust of ice shifted continually, chunks moving, breaking free, refreezing, so Steve stuck to the seafloor. Things shifted there, too, but he was in less danger of getting clocked in the head. So deep, the water was surprisingly still much of the time, but Steve’s movement caused ripples to billow outward and roil around submerged rocks. The monuments he used as guides shared the common feature of sticking up far enough to catch the currents that stirred the middle depths, and thus were always visible no matter how dark it grew, shining like lighthouses in the night.

Finally, the skeleton of the old wooden wreck emerged, ghostly, fading in and out of sight like a mirage as the glow waxed and waned. Whatever the ship had been, it had once used the cove as the Hydra ship now did, as a supposedly safe place to moor. A couple skulls amidst the wreckage spoke to the hard, permanent lesson the ship’s crew had learned, but it was too much to hope something would drive the _Graf Zeppelin_ to the depths. Even Steve’s plan would be nothing more than a temporary inconvenience.

Minutes later, the hull of the _Graf Zeppelin_ came into view, black crusted in glimmering ice piercing through the dense concretion overhead. Plankton glittered like faceted gemstones, and Steve circled, circled, squinting through the darkness in search of the perfect spot…

_…there…_

_Step 1: Create a distraction._

Metal made a concave divot in the steel siding of the ship where an enormous chunk of ice had slammed into it – probably repeatedly, judging by the extent of the damage. The hull was intact, but Steve dared hope the spot weakened, and the ice had shifted far enough from the initial impact that Steve had room to maneuver.

Freeing the axe from the ropes that had held it in place, Steve latched his tentacles onto the side of the ship, heaved his body through the water, and slammed the axe blade into the metal as hard as he could. Steel clanging dully, vibration deadened by the surrounding press of water, and shock tore the weapon from Steve’s hands. It drifted slowly toward the sea bed. Steve snagged it with a tentacle, tossed it through the water, caught it with a hand, and swung again. Again. Steve wasn’t optimistic that he could pierce the hull; Carlos insisted it couldn’t be done. Granted, Carlos had only a vague idea how strong Steve truly was, but given the confidence with which Carlos defended his assertion, Steve thought he spoke from personal experience.

_I’m sure pirates…_

_Clang_.

_…have many opportunities…_

_Clang_.

_…to attack ships…_

_Clang_.

 _…with axes_ …

Sinking the ship wasn’t part of the plan. The best Steve could hope for was, if he could puncture the hull, to flood a bulkhead or two. _Clang_. Even if Steve didn’t penetrate the steel siding, he was making a hell of a racket. _Clang._ The water muted the sound but couldn’t completely suppress it, and with each strike the metal reverberated more. _Clang._ The dent deepened, something hissed, and the ice block overhead shifted. _Clang_. The weathered wood handle of the axe started to splinter apart. _Clang._ Another sound penetrated the deep, and…

 _Clang_ … _Clang_ … _Clang...Clang..._

 _..._ Steve was embarrassed by how long it took him to realize that the flat wailing buzz, so irritating Steve had to resist the urge to sway away a non-existent fly, was the alarm klaxon sounding within the ship.

 _Clang_.

_Step 1: Success!_

_Clang_.

The handle fragmented in Steve’s hand, the axe head plummeting down. Steve snagged it, but a glance by the dim light showed him the blade had chipped under the might of Steve’s blows, so he discarded it. He didn’t need a weapon and the blade had serve its purpose.

_Step 2: Capitalize on Hydra being distracted to infiltrate the ship and find more records, the Winter Soldier, or both._

Diving beneath the keel, Steve bobbed up on the opposite side and latched onto the siding. Swinging himself down, then up, down, then up, he built up momentum and launched himself at the ice accumulated thick around the hull. His fists slammed into it, pain splintering down his arms, fragments of ice sinking around him in slow motion. Suctioning to the ship’s side again, Steve punched at the ice again, again, ignoring his wounds as ice tore into his flesh and cold cracked his skin. A huge chunk of ice descended and nearly pinned one of his tentacles. The steel siding pinged with the impact and Steve released a silent curse as air bubbles that streamed toward the surface. He needed Hydra focused on where he’d attacked first, needed as many of his opponents gathered there as possible, to give him run of the ship. If they heard him now...

_The only one I want to know I’m here is the Winter Soldier..._

_...if he comes for me, it’ll save me the trouble of having to find him..._

Steve wanted everyone else out of the way. Hydra’s foot soldiers were of no interest to Steve. If Steve was really lucky, no one would get hurt – he could capture the Winter Soldier as he _should_ have done when the Soldier came to him, carry him across land to home base, and they could figure things out from there.

Surging up again, Steve braced himself for impact but encountered no resistance. With a gasp, his head broke water, hair matted about his ears, shoulders and neck, and cold momentarily encased him in ice as the water coating his skin froze on contact. Snowflakes fell around him and Steve ignored them; grabbing the edge of the ice with his arms, snaking his tentacles to the surface, Steve hauled his torso out of the ocean, threw himself at the side of the ship and scaled the side quickly, confidently.

_Step 3: Hope like hell the Winter Soldier is as astute as I think he is._

Whenever the snow fall had started, a half foot had accumulated since the deck had last been cleared, made eerie, shadowed faces of the noses of the parked planes. The flood light was dim, snow making it appear to flicker, and the klaxon sounded far away. No amount of stealth would prevent Steve leaving an obvious trail across the fresh-fallen drifts, so instead he sped ahead, toward the bulkhead door leading into the conning tour.

_The Soldier found me at our base to bring me intel for no obvious reason. I can’t conceive of Hydra sending him there on a mission. Somehow, he did that on his own. He doesn’t remember who he is, but he wants to remember – needs to remember – and maybe, just maybe—_

The soft _pfft, pfft, pfft_ of bullets striking snow around him forced Steve’s attention back into the moment. He couldn’t see where the shooter was, but they had to be on the conning tower somewhere. Steve dodged behind a plane. A single shot shattered the cockpit cover, a second ricocheted off the wing with a flare of sparks, and then the shooting stopped.

_Still has shit aim tho…_

Red splotches dyed the snow beneath him, steam rising where the droplets fell.

_…oh._

Pain swamped him so powerfully he groaned and slumped to the ground, leaning against the plane’s wheels. Three shots had struck snow – or so Steve had thought – but no, they’d hit _him_ , and he hadn’t even noticed. Blood beaded from three holes painted across his chest. Whoever had fired – _really? Whoever? Who else could it be?_ – had paced and predicted Steve’s movement so well that the wounds nearly overlapped. Disbelieving, Steve smeared a hand through the crimson burbling out, crystalizing on his belly and tentacles, and stared at it.

“Fuck.”

 _Okay…okay, yeah, that looks bad – fuck, it hurts – but I’ve had worse, I’ve definitely had worse. Have to…have to focus_.

_Really, Rogers? When?_

A slow, deliberate blink helped Steve center himself. Dropping his hand to the snow – there no point being mesmerized by his own blood, _damn it, Steve,_ _stop staring it’s just a little – a whole heck of a lot – of blood_ – Steve tried to take a deep breath but agony burst like concussion grenades lodged in his lungs.

_Yeah, no, this is really bad._

_But I’ll get better. Fight through it, Steve – fight through it!_

With a roar that hurt like crazy but spurred him to motion, Steve surged to his feet.

_...tentacles...not feet...focus, Steve, focus and fight!_

_New plan – cling to the side of the ship_ – Steve bolted toward the edge of the flight deck – _circle around to the other side_ _and—_

Weight landed heavy on one of Steve’s tentacles, pinned it in place, and his forward momentum planted him flat on his face. The inches of snow weren’t enough to dull the jolt as he hit the deck and his vision blanked momentarily. Red pooled beneath him, melting the scant cushion of snow, and he twisted, tried to tug his tentacle free, fingers scrambling for a handhold but finding none. Everything within reach dissolved into water at a touch. The Winter Soldier stood behind him, above him, staring down at him through the sight of a rifle.

 _Whoever he is, he has a flare for the dramatic_. _As if he’d need a sight to shoot me at this range!_

_That is the single most useless observation I have ever made in a life-or-death situation._

_Don’t worry, Rogers, he won’t shoot me._

The Soldier’s finger shifted and tightened on the trigger. The muzzle aimed unerringly at Steve’s head.

_He won’t – I know he won’t – whoever the Winter Soldier is, he wouldn’t, he won’t—_

Instinct took over before Steve fully registered the click of the trigger or the movement of the Soldier’s hand. Tentacles lashed up, caught the barrel, jerked it into the air, burned as the muzzle heated. The brightness of the muzzle flash seared his vision and the boom of the shot rang in his ears. Pain tore at his chest as he slapped his tentacles hard against the Soldier and he tried and failed to wrench the rifle from the Soldier’s grasp. Another shot rang out, close, and pain peppered the side of Steve’s head, deafened him in one ear. Lashing out, unthinking, Steve got a hand on the muzzle, ripped it free, and threw it over the side of the ship.

He couldn’t hear the klaxon, couldn’t hear the gun strike ice below.

 _Don’t want to hurt him – don’t, I know him, he’s someone...a...a person, a friend...but…but he could kill me, he’s_ trying _to kill me this time, I have to – have to – something – have to—_

Fear beat at him, pain nearly incapacitating, and though his vision cleared to show him the metal hand descending as a stream of bright white toward his face, Steve could only blink bemusement.

 _Crunch_.

The force of the blow shattered Steve’s nose, blanked his already damaged hearing to a muted buzz, and splashed blood across his vision.

 _Have to_ fight _!_

The knuckles of the Winter Soldier’s metal hand beaded with frozen blood and glittered like rubies. The first exchange of the fight had been more than Steve’s pain-swamped brain could process, but time dilated and the next punch came toward his face slowly, like watching frame by frame on a busted newsreel. Steve shifted his head aside at the last moment. Even the concussion of that mighty fist crunching into the flight deck was inaudible to Steve, but he felt the shock wave against his back. Their faces were inches apart, the Soldier’s expression incredulous, furious.  

Steve spat blood in his eyes.

Steve’s perception of time flashed back to normal.

The Soldier jumped back with an animal snarl, pawing at his face in a vain effort to get the freezing liquid out of his eyes. Steve bunched his tentacles and leapt up, covering the distance between them in a single inhuman stride, landing one punch, a second, a third, while the soldier was distracted. The blows knocked the Soldier’s head to one side, then the other, but with the mask covering his jaw, mouth and nose, there was no telling how much damage Steve did. The crimson trails clinging to the Soldier’s face rendered his features demonic with rage, and for the first time Steve looked at the Winter Soldier and saw _enemy_. Metal caught Steve’s next punch, dug into the cold-fractured skin of Steve’s hand, squeezed so hard that bone snapped. Steve ignored it. With his chest leaking blood, his mouth filled with the taste of copper, his ears deadened, what was one more injury? He pressed the punch forward, pressed forward, forced the Soldier to continue to defend with his enhanced arm.

 _If I’m_ not _aiming to incapacitate…_

Tentacles dodged and wove in the scant space separating them. The Winter Soldier tried to bat them away with his free hand, tried to pry his other arm free, but Steve threaded their fingers together, limiting the Soldier’s range. First one tentacle, then two, then four breached the scant defense that the Soldier could mount with one arm, and Steve launched increasingly hard attacks that struck the Soldier in the face, the shoulders, the belly, the testicles.

If the Winter Soldier felt pain, he didn’t show it, didn’t slow, didn’t disengage.

The Soldier was quick, but the flurry was more than he could keep track of – more than Steve could keep track of, but training and instinct kept him moving, kept his tentacles from tangling together, kept the blows falling. The Soldier had to take the screen of tentacles seriously and continue trying to deflect, and as he did, Steve lifted another tentacle and wrapped it around one of his knees. Steve snapped the tentacle taut and twisted the parts above and below the knee at different rates. A crack that Steve felt rather than heard shivered through his tentacle and the Soldier screamed, silent to Steve’s ears, mask gaping black over his covered mouth.

_That’s it, he can’t possibly keep—_

Metal finger tore _through_ Steve’s hand, and Steve howled in agony.

There was no consciously keeping track of the fight after that. No holds barred, they tore at each other, fists and tentacles flying. Even with his knee broken, the Winter Soldier was faster than he had any right to be. Pain slowed Steve more than it did the Soldier, Steve’s wounds more severe, but what he lacked in celerity he made up for in numbers; with three functional limbs there was no way that the Soldier could counter every lash of a tentacle in his direction. Steve’s tentacles were whip-quick and tremendously strong, and in minutes the Soldier was covered in a of minor wounds, his mask loose around one ear, his uniform slashed to show bloodied cuts beneath.

Snow fell heavily, whitening their hair, flakes billowing and swirling around their flying limbs. The deck beneath them grew slick as blood splattered, melted the fluff, then refroze as slick, dark ice. With suction cups to secure him in place, Steve still had traction, but the Soldier increasingly had trouble finding sure footing. There was a hunted look in his eye, his gaze darting this way and that, but Steve kept the pressure on him, encroached in his personal space, circled around whenever stance shifts suggested that the Soldier was about to make a run for it. Slowly, Steve’s hearing resolved to the sound of the klaxon blaring and, in the quiet moments between, the slap of tentacles on leather and flesh.

 _An opening – have to find an opening – have to_ make _an opening—_

The Soldier favored his uninjured leg left leg, and Steve shifted to the right, shifted to the right, forced the Soldier to adjust his stance and put weight on his right leg every time. Fingers tried to grasp Steve’s tentacles, but Steve slithered them continually out of reach, all too aware of how quickly the advantage would shift if the Soldier started ripping off Steve’s limbs. Bunching groups of three tentacles into powerful bundles, balling up the ends into pseudo-fists, Steve swung with his unbroken hand, swung with his pseudo-fists, landed bruising blows. He didn’t care _where_ he hit, so long as he hit. Even the Winter Soldier couldn’t weather such an onslaught forever. The Soldier caught some of Steve’s strikes, but his feet slipped each time, and the longer passed, the less steady he seemed.

 _Don’t let up. Have to kill him – no! Have to_ stop _him, have to help him._

_Whatever it takes!_

Pretending fatigue, Steve dropped his other tentacles to the ground. The world was agony and cold and the urgent need to _end this_ before the Soldier got the better of him, before the distraction Steve had created below decks ceased to hold the interest of the Hydra soldiers. If they came to deck – if any other trained prisoners came – Steve was _screwed_.

_End this – have to end this!_

Steve kept swinging, kept swinging, used the appearance of temporary weakness to mask feints. The Soldier blocked each blow, even as Steve’s strikes forced the Soldier’s guard down, down, and exposed his neck.

_The Soldier was savvier than this before...don’t trust the opening, it’s a ploy…no, I might as well try, have to try! If I’m fatigued, if I’m hurt, maybe he’s hurt and fatigued too!_

_All or nothing, Rogers..._

Rocking forward, Steve put his weight on two of his tentacle pseudo-fists and lashed out with five of his other tentacles, wrapping them around the Winter Soldier’s neck. The Soldier was fast, faster than Steve, and he barely got a fist between the tentacles and his throat. Metal fingers grasped at the outermost tentacle but Steve shifted his weight again, barraged the Soldier’s left side with blows. The Soldier’s face twisted into a rictus of fury and anger and pain but he had to meet those strikes, had to take them seriously, had to defend himself when any solid attack to his head could render him unconscious, any unblocked punch to the chest might break bones. Fingers, all too human, nearly blue with cold after long minutes of battle in the snow, slid over Steve’s slick flesh without dislodging Steve’s grip. Steve bore down with all his might, constricting his tentacles around the Soldier’s neck. The defending human hand broke with a snap and went limp, but the Soldier scarce flinched, his other arm continuing to block – parry – block – parry.

“Say uncle, damn you!” Steve’s attempt at a snarl came out guttural, unrecognizable, garbled by blood and spit and agony.

“No!” the Winter Soldier roared.

Shame chilled Steve to the bone. However violently the Soldier had behaved, he could still communicate, still understand, still reply. Steve hadn’t even tried to speak with him, hadn’t tried to get through to him. The Soldier had almost killed him in the first volley and Steve had met violence with violence.

_Maybe he really can’t be saved. Maybe neither of us can be._

Steve’s tentacles snapped tight and the Soldier gagged, face flushing unhealthy red, then purple, as he strained to breathe. The fabric of the mask moved over the Soldier’s mouth, but no sound came out. The metal arm dropped, finally, and the Winter Soldier’s dark eyes bugged from his head.

“Kill…me…” croaked the Soldier.

_Of course he can be saved. It’s not too late!_

“Never,” Steve vowed.

Pain tore across Steve’s belly and jolted through his back. Gasping in shock, Steve’s grip around the Soldier’s neck went slack, the Soldier’s throat corded around a breath. _No! Have to..._ have _to..._ Steve redoubled his efforts. His torso was agony. The Soldier’s metal hand was in motion, doing something that hurt like crazy, but the Soldier’s eyes were rolling back in his head. If Steve just kept at it – kept at it – agony jolted through Steve’s back, accompanied by a tinny, distant sound. Squeezing his tentacles tighter, tighter still, Steve chanced a glance behind him.

A line of Hydra soldiers stood on the deck, cloaked in a curtain of snow, weapons aimed his way.

 _Fuck_.

A moment’s indecision had Steve’s unoccupied tentacles flailing at nothing. His options – what options? Steve’s injuries were dire. He didn’t dare swim, couldn’t possibly carry the Winter Soldier any distance, couldn’t flee to the Crew’s base across the tundra. Visibility was nil; Steve couldn’t see the planes on the far end of the platform, much less anything beyond the ship’s deck. He knew the area, though, had studied it with precisely this eventuality involved…

The guns fired.

Maintaining his grip on the Winter Soldier’s neck, Steve vaulted off the edge of the aircraft carrier and hurtled toward the ground. No chain arrested his momentum this time, there was nothing but solid ice below. Steve dreaded the impact, but there was no stopping, no slowing, no catching himself. The Soldier’s eyes slipped shut, his face blue, and Steve took the chance of easing his chokehold and wrapped freed tentacles around the Soldier’s arms and legs. Twisting in midair, Steve got his body between the Winter Soldier’s and the ground seconds before agony destroyed Steve’s awareness.

* * *

 _No, no, no, no, I have to wake up, have to_ —

Steve tried to jerk upright but no sooner did his muscles tense to support his weight than pain nearly annihilated him and he groaned and collapsed. He counted thirty before his vision resolved to clarity, eyelashes frozen with snowflakes, skin rigid with the chill. Maybe an inch of snow covered his limply tangled tentacles. Not too long had passed; it was still dark and snow still fell, forming sheets of white that billowed in the wind. The silhouette of the _Graf Zeppelin_ was barely visible as a void of darkness where only more snowfall should be. The Winter Soldier sprawled beside him, unconscious. Judging by their relative positions, Steve thought he’d at least succeeded in breaking the Soldier’s fall.

_Yeah, by breaking my own damn body._

_Ugh._

Every breath was paralytically painful. Ice-encrusted bullet wounds made jagged holes in Steve’s chest, three small and narrow – entry wounds – two more gaping, bullets that had struck him in the back and torn through his organs and muscles and left ugly exit wounds. Judging by where he’d been shot, no one had pulled their punches. Everyone had shot to kill. Steve had no right to still be breathing, and could only guess that his healing was even better than he thought, or that something about being made into a half-kraken had resulted in his internal organs shifting. Maybe his heart was no longer in the center of his chest? Because if his heart was where it ought to be, Steve would be toast. _Calamari_. He strained a laugh that turned into a sob as excruciating pain ripped through him.

_Scratch the “no fixed organs” theory, ‘cause that hurts like crazy. That pain is probably my heart. But I’m alive._

_That’s something to build on, at least. Breathing makes an awesome starting point._

_Now what?_

Rolling to his side, Steve reached out and laid fingers on the Soldier’s neck. Even through the balaclava, the man’s pulse thrummed vibrant against Steve’s numb finger tips. Steve eased out a relieved breath.

Snow caught thick on the Winter Soldier’s eyelashes, whitened his dark hair, rimed over his blue-tinged lips.

_Neither of us will be alive for long if we don’t move._

Steve forced himself upright and took in his surroundings. Based on what little Steve could see and what he remembered of his fight on the deck, they’d come down on the south side of the _Graf Zeppelin_. If Steve was right, the snowfall obscured the coast to his left, and to his right, south and west…

Steve turned that way and peered, squinting through the darkness and the snow. He saw nothing...except darkness and snow.

But somewhere southwest of where he stood was their only hope of finding shelter nearby: the nearest Soviet bunker.

Steve got his hands under him to rise before he remembered that the Soldier had shattered his right hand. A shriek he couldn’t repress echoed into the night despite the deadening effect of the snow, and one of the lights on the deck of the _Graf Zeppelin_ shifted, swept past their location, and focused on an area maybe 50 feet behind them as Hydra searched for where they’d fallen.

 _Time to concentrate, and time to_ go _. I don’t need to rise to flee. Stop thinking like a human, Steve_.

Wrapping his uninjured arm and four tentacles around the Winter Soldier, Steve reached out with his other sixteen tentacles, stretched them as far forward as they’d go, suctioned onto the ice, and used the grip to drag himself and the Soldier forward. Efforts to walk his tentacles forward and continue their momentum proved more than Steve could manage, caused more pain than even he could bear. Steve had no choice but to resort to crawling forward piecemeal: stretching before them as far as he could, dragging them forward a handful of feet until there his tentacles were too slack to have the strength to bear their weight, then doing it again, and again, and again.

They covered maybe three feet a minute.

The Soviet bunker was at least two miles away.

_5,280 feet in a mile._

_That’s at least 10,000 feet._

_3 feet a minute is…3,000 something minutes._

_Fucking math._

_At this rate, it’ll take 50 some-odd hours to get there._

Of all the scenarios Steve imagined as he’d planned his attack on the _Graf Zeppelin_ , he’d never conceived of trying to leave while this incapacitated.

_Not while still breathing, anyway. God, this hurts._

_But I’ve survived worse. I survived every torture Hydra could concoct to visit on my flesh. And I’ll survive this._

_Even if we can survive the cold, Hydra could catch us – Hydra_ will _catch us._

_I’ve got to go faster._

Steve got an arm beneath the Winter Soldier’s shoulders and hauled them both upright. The Soldier was heavy, bulky, all muscle and bone. Something in Steve’s chest tore, surging blood up his throat, and he coughed, hacked, strained to ignore the agony as blood frothed down his chin and splattered the ground before them. A tentacle took some of the load off Steve’s shoulders and ribs, shifted it to his waist; he added a second, a third, until his lower body held the majority of the Soldier’s weight.

He glided forward.

A cough dyed the white flakes falling before him deep red, scatter droplets made black by darkness amidst the deepening white drifts. At least the fresh fall would hide their unmistakable tracks. If Steve was lucky…

…but Steve seemed to have used up his luck on his first attempt to infiltrate the _Graf Zeppelin_. Hubris and need had driven this second trip. Steve had known he shouldn’t come, everyone had _told_ him he shouldn’t chance the journey alone, but Steve had ignored them, ignored his own good sense, and his current predicament was the result.

_At least I got him out. Now I have to treat his injuries, figure out how to get through to him, fracture Hydra’s mind control, and find out who the hell he is._

Step by agonizing step, Steve pushed himself onward. His body tried to knit his wounds, but the strain of walking, of carrying the Soldier, of carrying his own body weight, continually tore the wounds open anew.

 _Pretend it’s more Hydra torture – pretend that no matter how it hurts, there is no conceivable way I can prevent the pain. I’m not in control of my forward momentum. My attempts to walk are not what’s causing this agony. No, this is outside of my control, and the only way to make the pain stop is to endure and continue and know that if only I make it clear to the other side, I will be able to heal_ then _._

Snow accumulated on Steve’s shoulders, froze his hair to his neck, oozed bloody water down his tentacles. The warmth radiating around the Winter Soldier’s body was the sole spot of comfort in a world washed white, the only reassurance Steve had that he wasn’t torturing himself for nothing.

 _As long as he’s alive, this is worth it…I can save him, I_ can _._

 _I should never have tried to do this alone_.

His tentacles went momentarily flaccid beneath him and he whumped to the ground.

_Stop thinking._

_Walk._

Tensing the boneless limbs, Steve pushed himself up again, pushed himself forward again, pushed himself onward, and onward, and onward. Dark shapes reared in the distance around them, too far to resolve into meaningful landmarks, and Steve clung to the hope that he was traveling in the right direction, that in a minute, or ten minutes, or an hour, or five hours, he’d finally reach the place where snow-covered rocks tore like a gash through the icy ocean surface and an abandoned Soviet bunker stood like the Goddamn Statue of Liberty promising salvation and hope and life in a land of plenty.

Endless minutes flowed together, each indistinguishable from the previous, from the next, identical in snow and cold and pain and exertion and the singular driving urge that Steve _had_ to keep going.

Another glide forward, and the ground rose beneath Steve so abruptly that he stumbled, too spent to catch his balance even with 15 tentacles acting as legs. Instinct had him reaching out to catch himself with his crushed hand; his weight fell on splintered bones and sundered flesh and he shuddered and moaned and collapsed. White had made the rake of the ground imperceptible until he walked into it face first, and the Winter Soldier slumped beside him, metal arm striking something hard with an obnoxious squeak.

_Bright side, Rogers! I can hear again!_

A tentacle snagged on something that didn’t taste of cold.

_Wait, what squeaked?_

Brushing a hand over the surface before him, Steve wiped inches of snow away and revealed wind-scoured basalt.

The coast.

The Soldier’s metal arm swayed limply over the stones. A knuckle skimmed rock and replicated the high-pitched, unpleasant noise.

_Almost there!_

_…it_ could _be the wrong section of the coast_ …

Forcing exhausted muscles to engage, exhausted suckers to adhere well enough to support him, Steve hauled himself and the Winter Soldier up the steep, rocky grade.

_That’s…what I love about you…Rogers…such a fucking…optimist…_

As spent as he was, the ascent was so arduous that it made his previous exertion seem a cakewalk. His throat burned from panting the frigid air, and he struggled not to cough as each desperate inhalation swept snowflakes into his mouth. Every breath burst agony through his chest; a cough would be incapacitating.

_Soon…I’ll be there…soon…I will…_

Loose rocks shifted beneath Steve’s curled tentacles. His balance had been excellent since Hydra turned him into a kraken but now every unevenness of the ground beneath him, every inadequately embedded rock, was treacherous. More than once, he hauled his way up only to be carried back down when the land beneath him gave way.

_Soon…_

Steve forced a step forward, another, another, another…

…and collapsed into deep snow.

Bemused, he slumped, half-buried, wondering what the snowbank portended.

_Like a damn omen or something…and fuck if I know what it means…I’d have better luck reading tea leaves…_

_…Bucky, swirling the bitter brew that Ma had made…the residue of leaves making patterns on the sides of the chipped cup… “Better watch out, Stevie, think this is saying I’m gonna meet the girl of my dreams tonight, cause if that right there ain’t a set of jugs to die…” … “…dunno, Buck, looks like sand dunes to me, think we’re headin’ to Coney Island again…” … “…always did have a better eye for this shit than me, guess I’d better leave the soothsayin’ to the pros…” … “…I know just the lady, got a booth and everything on the boardwalk…” … “…maybe they’re her knockers, then…”_

_Bucky…_

_What if I just…stopped?_

_Oh for fuck’s sake shut up, Steve._

_Hear me out. I’ve been tortured, destroyed, rebuilt. I’ve been frozen and shot and drowned. And yeah, I healed, but my mission was to take out Hydra. Sure, I haven’t quite pulled it off yet, but the word is out. I did my part. I’ve done enough. No one could possibly expect more from me._

_And the snow is so warm, so comforting, so supportive._

_What if I just kept lying here?_

Steve’s eyes slipped shut. Snow drifted over his skin, and Steve was so cold he could swear the snow felt warm by contrast. The flakes no longer melted when they touched him. The chill deadened the pain of his wounds, soothed the ache of his spent muscles. Breath wheezed through his shattered nose, hissed through lungs he couldn’t expand without pain, congealed as bloody ice coating his lips with every exhale. His tentacles, buried in the snow bank, felt good, felt warm, the taste of cold all-encompassing.

_Yeah…this ain’t so bad._

_This is fine._

The only warmth in the world pressed against his side.

_…yeah, Buck, missed you too…see you again soon, maybe…_

_No one could expect more from me?_ I _expect more from me!_

 _Get_ up _, you lazy bastard!_

_How about…how about no? Sorry, Rogers, sick of your haranguing bull. What, really, is still worth fighting for?_

Metal brushed Steve’s arm, painfully hot, and a pitiful moan escaped Steve.

_Who…what…?_

_Right. I’m not lying with Bucky. This isn’t bed. I’m hallucinating. Fricken_ splendid _. And that arm belongs to…_

Steve forced his eyes open. Thank God for the snow, somehow catching light from God-knew-what-source and amplifying it enough that Steve could make out the faint contours and outlines of the world around him. The Winter Soldier lay beside Steve, face gray in the dimness, hair lank and soaked. His mask was askew, revealing an angular nose, nostrils frosted silver.

_If I stay here, I’ll die._

_If I stay here, the Winter Soldier will die, too._

_So?_

_I can make whatever shit choices I want with my own life, but I don’t get to make choices for_ him _. If I do that, I’m no better than Hydra._

_But he’s dared me to kill him repeatedly, practically begged me to every time we fought! If I let him die with me here, I’m doing what he wants._

_If you really believe that, Steve, I can get you a damn good deal on a bridge…_

_I can’t let him die._

Steve wasn’t sure which part of his fractured personality produced the last; so often divided between his sense of self and his sense of duty, he was used to even the most determined statements in his head being half-hearted, uncertain, hedged in by cavaets, but the certainty that the Winter Soldier _must_ be saved was bone deep, absolute, incontrovertible.

Steve got his tentacles under him.

Steve tensed the arm encircling the Winter Soldier.

Steve rose.

If his bearings were correct, the Soviet outpost should be to his right, farther out on the peninsula stretching out into the frozen ocean. Glancing around him, all he could see was snow falling, so dense it grayed out the world into the distance.

_Welcome to life in a snow globe._

_Time to count on luck one last time…_

Steve walked.

_I really…need…a better word for this…on flat ground…I could try gliding…but right now…trying to balance…on all this fucking snow…it’s more like…more like…rolling…one tentacle over the other…in sequence…carrying me forward…fuck if I had…another eighty…just call me a Goddamn centipede…maybe…not a kraken…‘stead of dodeca-man…could go with…dodecapede…that sounds…horrifying…think I saw somethin’...I could call…a dodecapede…in Bucky’s basement once…and in the bathroom…what’d Ma call that thing?_

_Crap, I can’t remember._

_Like…a silverfish…or…_

Steve let the memories consume him as he trudged on, sweeping over the ground tentacle after tentacle. The Soldier’s dragging legs made a deep trench through the snow, and the resistance made the bulky man seem ten times, a hundred times heavier. Fatigue and the cold blurred Steve’s vision, or maybe it was just the snow obscuring the world around him, fogging existence to oblivion. Maybe this was another hallucination. Maybe Hydra was using him and the fog his own muddled thoughts, his own confusion brought about by torture and brainwashing.

_What if…what if this…is all there is…all there’ll ever be?_

Squeak.

_When he wakes up…will he even thank me…will he try to kill me…again…will he remember…who he is?_

Squeak.

_Will I recognize him?_

Squeak.

_Wait…what’s that noise?_

On autopilot, Steve shambled several feet farther, each step accompanied by a squeak, before he managed to stop. The sound was familiar: the whine made when the Winter Soldier’s metal arm brushed against stone. Except they were standing, the Soldier was upright, and…

…and there was something solid to their left.

The bunker.

Steve had skirted so close that, as momentum swung the Winter Soldier’s limp arm back and forth, the metal made the tell-tale noise.

Steve would have wept with relief if his eyes still worked right. As it was, he felt the grief and sorrow and relief burgeon within him as heat but he couldn’t so much as smile, his skin was so brittle with cold and ice and blood.

Shifting to lay his injured hand on the wall, Steve followed the curving surface around, around, searching for the door. Once around found nothing, and relief gave way to a flicker of panic before Steve registered that at least a foot of snow had fallen that night, on top of the depths of snow previously accumulated, and the door might be buried completely. Using four tentacles to clear the way before him and a fifth to skim the wall at the snow line, Steve circled the structure again. Only the knowledge that a scant half-foot of poured concrete separated Steve from salvation and safety kept him moving. Half-way around, he found the door. Maybe a foot and a half of it was unburied. Dropping the Soldier into the snow, where he lay curled up, oddly helpless and vulnerable for one so broad and strong, Steve dug quickly with his tentacles, using raw strength to break through the layers of ice and snow. Dark flecked the pristine white, splotches forming as he pressed deeper and his skin cracked with the cold or tore on exposed icy edges.

Steve didn’t feel a thing.

 _Probably a bad sign_.

 _Doesn’t matter. Keep digging_.

Four feet down, and the knob was revealed. Heavy snow still bore on the door, Steve’s eye level scarce above the lip of the hole he’d dug, but maybe…

Steve wrapped two tentacles around the knob and wrenched, slamming a shoulder against the metal as he did. There was a click and a crack, but the door didn’t give, and pain seethed through Steve so severely that even his teeth ached.

 _Do it_ again _, Rogers!_

Torqueing the knob with his tentacles, Steve tried again. Something splintered – Steve couldn’t guess what, the door was metal, the frame stone, he thought – and the door gave an inch. A third try produced no force. Baffled, Steve looked down.

One of his _tentacles_ had shattered from the cold.

Nauseated, Steve collapsed and retched blood and saliva and bile into the snow.

_No. Hold it together. It’ll heal._

_My arm. Literally. Froze. Off. And. I. Didn’t. Feel. It._

Steve had heard about similar things happening to men suffering from frostbite, those fighting in the far north, their flesh so damaged that they’d take off a boot and their toes would come off with it, but he’d never imagined, never _realized…_

 _And it won’t get better if I don’t_ get inside _!_

Squeezing his eyes shut against tears that instantly froze to icicles jabbing his corneas, Steve brought two more tentacles to bear and tried again.

 _Just like in the ice after I crashed the_ Valkyrie _…if I froze, if I crumbled to pieces, would that be enough to kill me, or would I heal? Would I be aware? Oh God, oh God, oh God…_

He tried again.

Metal shrieked on stone and the door gave so abruptly that Steve tumbled into the room, falling heavily to the floor. The pitch black washed crimson with agony as his wounds broke open. Within wasn’t warm, but with no snow fall, with no wind, it seemed warm by contrast.

_Or that’s the frostbite again. Doesn’t that make cold seem warm?_

_The Winter Soldier is still out in there._

Whimpering continually, unable to keep himself silent, Steve crawled to the door. His suckers wouldn’t engage, wouldn’t cling to the walls to help him through the half-blocked entry, so he used his arms. By the faint light he could see them criss-crossed with cuts, his broken hand a mass of blackness crusted in bloody ice. Chunks of broken tentacle were scattered over the ice inches from his face. His injuries were so horrific it was hard not to stare, hard not to obsess, _no, I have to focus. I have to help him, and get this door closed, and wrap us in a blanket, and try to get us warmed up._

_When my body warms everything is going to hurt about a billion times worse._

_Just a rough estimate._

_Even a billion times a billion jolts of pain is better than freezing to death!_

Hefting with what little strength was left in his shoulders, Steve pulled himself laboriously up. Skin cracked at every movement.

_Just a little farther._

_You’ve been claiming that for_ hours _, Rogers! When does it become_ true _?_

_Bitch and moan all you want, sissy, but we found the damn bunker. We really are almost done._

_Or this is all a cold-induced delusion, the mirage of an oasis floating over the distant sand dunes, taunting the man dying of thirst._

_Figures that the tundra oasis mirage is fucking buried in snow. Even my hallucinations have barriers between me and success…_

Steve stretched himself up on his tentacles and reached over the lip of the hole to grab hold of the Winter Soldier’s legs. With what little strength he had left – _this is the last of it, it has to be…God, ma, please let it be enough_ – Steve held tight and fell backwards, letting gravity do the bulk of the work. Snow and ice gave way beneath their combined weight and they tumbled down into the bunker. A sob tore at Steve’s tattered throat, screamed through his punctured chest, ripped at his cold-flayed skin.

The Soldier didn’t make a sound as he struck the floor.

_Please don’t be dead. Please don’t be dead. Please…after everything…I did my best, tried to so hard, to save you…_

Blinking to clear his vision ­– _impossible, it’s pitch dark, idiot_ – Steve strained a single tentacle outward and closed the door. Already, snow piled against the jamb and it was all Steve could do to get it shut. Absolute darkness enclosed them, and the urge to stop moving was overwhelming.

_No…a little more…a little farther…_

_…you’re a fucking liar, Rogers, you said getting into the God-forsaken bunker was the last step, and now that we’re here, it’s_ still _‘a little farther, a little farther…’_

With no feeling in his numbed limbs and darkness obscuring the room, finding anything was nigh-impossible. Steve pulled himself to the wall, hoping that colliding with things would provide adequate sensation for him to identify his surroundings.

_…wall…_

_…wall…_

_…something low and belled and flexible, probably the cot…_

_…wall…_

_…something smooth and high…maybe the cabinet…if it is there should be a handle or something…_

_…here’s a niche…_

Hoping he’d truly found the cabinet, Steve managed to curl one of his fingers scarce enough to catch the indent and tug outward. Hinges squealed and whatever it was moved. _I guess that’s promising_. Fumbling, Steve felt over the interior of whatever he’d opened and, by sound and touch, confirmed that he’d found the storage cabinet.

_Which means…_

_…if the contents of this cabinet are the same as the contents of every other identical storage cabinet in every other identical bunker I’ve explored…_

_…one of these mystery objects is a flashlight!_

The desire for haste made Steve clumsy. Things clattered and rattled and smashed as he searched for anything cylindrical.

_Something crinkly…something square…something heavy…something feathery…something paginated…and…and…_

_Eureka!_

Gasping and choking in relief, Steve groped for the flashlight’s on switch. With a click, the light blinked on and brightness coruscated over the room, painful to Steve’s dark accustomed eyes.

_It works, praise the damn Lord, Satan, or whoever the hell I owe this too. I’d kiss the Pope’s ring in thanks. I’d kowtow to Emperor Hirohito. I’d…okay, no, I’d still punch Hitler in the face…_

_Focus!_

Dazzled, Steve blinked until the light ceased to seem searingly bright.

 _Okay, we’ve got light,_ now _may we rest?_

_No. Have to help the Soldier – get him in the cot, get him warm…_

Grumbling, Steve pulled himself across the floor. Scant distances seemed vast, and the rough concrete abraded his destroyed skin. Steve had no idea if it was a good sign or a bad that the pain of his injuries was starting to build again, but either way, attention to his wounds would have to wait.

_Just a little longer…just a little longer…_

No one with all their joints intact could possibly lie as the Winter Soldier did, sprawled with one leg bent unnaturally, one arm trapped beneath his back. In the dancing, bobbing stream of light, Steve looked between the Winter Soldier and the cot, back and forth, back and forth.

_Nope, sorry Rogers, but that’s just absolutely fucking impossible._

_Fine, fine, but at least straighten him out and get the damn blanket over him. If he freezes to death, this was all for nothing._

_What about if I freeze to death, huh, Rogers? What then?_

_Quit your bellyaching, you big baby…_

Steve flopped the Winter Soldier onto his back…

…straightened his limbs…

…snagged the coarse blanket with a tentacle…

…tossed it over the Soldier…

… _that’s the only blanket, he’s gonna have to share…_

_…no inappropriate thoughts!_

_…that is seriously the last damn thing on my mind right now…_

…and crawled alongside the only shining beacon left in the entire frozen world.

The Soldier lay still, flesh hot to Steve’s touch despite his pallor, mask askew.

Mask…

_Who are you?_

With trembling fingers, Steve reached out and tugged the loosened mask aside, revealing plush lips and a strong chin peppered with stubble.

_Who…_

Long dark hair…deep dark eyes…a fucking perfect nose…those lips, God, so familiar…

_Bucky._

Hope simmered in Steve’s breast.

_No. That’s impossible. Bucky’s dead. Bucky’s been dead for a year._

Brushing strands of frozen hair from that familiar brow – _how did I not recognize his eyes, his hair, his forehead? Oh, right, because_ this can’t be Bucky, _it’s impossible, because Bucky is dead! –_ Steve mapped the numerous small changes to every perfect feature of Bucky’s face.

_Not Bucky!_

_Stop!_

_This is a delusion. That feeling in my chest isn’t hope, it’s the damn bullet still lodged in my heart from when the Winter Soldier_ repeatedly shot me.

_This isn’t real._

_…it looks real…_ he _looks real…_

_Hallucinating a bunker to protect us? That’s mean, brain, but okay, I get that the delusion was well-intentioned, if misguided._

_Hallucinating…hallucinating_ Buck _?_

_I hope I never wake up._

Two tears tracked down Steve’s cheeks. He was warming. Surrendering to the pain, the exhaustion, and the hopelessness threatening to drown him, Steve let his eyes slip shut.

_Never…never wanna wake up…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapters posts on Thursday, June 29th, 2017.
> 
> As a bit of behind the scenes, guys...the meds I mentioned in my authors note a last week are hitting my like a god-damn freight train - I was literally in bed asleep almost eleven hours last night and I still feel like I hardly slept a wink. Further, this story has ended up significantly longer than I originally anticipated - when I initially outlined it, talking things out with my artist cobaltmoony, I thought it'd be about 100,000 words. Instead, my draft is already 130,000 words and I'm still a ways from finishing. I'm writing as fast as I can trying to finish by the deadline, but I'd say there's a decent chance, considering how the meds make me feel, that I will not be able to complete this by the July 4th posting date. I've been in communication with both the mods and moony (in case you didn't realize, this is a fic for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang, and July 4th is the last posting date), but I don't want to leave you guys in the lurch not knowing the plan.
> 
> If I'm able to finish to my personal standards by July 4th, I will follow my original posting schedule. The story is almost certainly going to be LONGER than the projected 21 chapters (considering I'm already 5k into Chapter 20...). I will continue to post chapters on alternating days until the 4th and then post the rest.
> 
> If I'm NOT able to finish by the 4th, I will "officially" withdraw from the challenge, but I will not stop working on this story until I finish. I'll keep posting chapters every other day until it's all up. (the mods and moony have agreed to this).
> 
> Thanks for reading, everyone! <3


	15. Chapter 15

_Ow..._

_Pain. That means I’m probably awake, right?_

_Fuck._

_Everything._

Steve’s chest felt like it had torn out then dumped back into his ribcage haphazardly, without regard for where his lungs were supposed to be or how his heart was supposed to beat. His tentacles burned like they’d been set afire and left charred yet still attached. Every pump of blood dissipated pain outward, coalesced agony in his head, in his fingers, in his toes…

… _no, wait, don’t have toes…_

…and Steve would have given anything to fall back asleep again. His body healed equally quickly regardless of whether he was awake or asleep, but the time passed so much less _awfully_ when he was unconscious.

Oblivion was too much to hope for, though.

There wasn’t a glimmer of light against Steve’s eyelids to hint at whether it was daytime or nighttime. Fragments of the previous day – or the previous night? – or the day before? Steve had no idea how long he’d been unconscious…memories of _recent events_ came to Steve out of order, disconnected. The endless trek across the ice was reduced to blinks of blackness and snowfall and toil and pain. The fight on the Hydra deck made a bizarre montage, punches and kicks and grapples interspersed with events that must have been subsequent, when Steve dragged himself and the Winter Soldier across the ice in search of an Eden he scarce hoped to find.

Judging by the darkness and the cold nipping at Steve’s skin, he hadn’t found Eden. But he had, at least, found warmth that glowed along one side of his body like salvation, leading him back to land and light and life.

_The Winter Soldier…_

_…last night I thought he was Bucky…_

_…maybe Peggy was right. Maybe my obsession with the Winter Soldier_ is _some weird translation of my feelings for Buck, my guilt that I wasn’t able to save him…_

_I’m not going to be able to fall back asleep, am I?_

_If I’m awake, I might as well_ be awake _. There are things that need doing, and I better get on them._

Sighing acceptance, Steve shifted the blanket off himself, tucking it snug around the Winter Soldier. Based on what Steve could feel, the Soldier hadn’t moved since the night before, but his skin felt hot – almost too hot – to Steve’s touch. Steve set both hands beneath him and only remembered one was badly injured with pain like ice tore through his skin and set his teeth on edge around a hissed intake of breath. Movement was agony, but there was no help for it. Pushing himself up, getting tentacles beneath him, Steve rose and tried to get his bearings.

_Right. Bunker._

_Flashlight is…somewhere._

Steve groped for the flashlight, drawing a blank on where he might have set it the night before, and distracted himself from the pain by concocting a to-do list.

 _One: Assess the Winter Soldier’s wounds and determine if there are any that need treatment, and if there are any that I am_ able _to treat with the resources currently available to me._

_Corollary: did Hydra figure out a way to replicate the quick healing granted by Dr. Erskine’s serum? Can the Winter Soldier heal like I do?_

_For first aid purposes I should assume not._

Moving was more challenging than Steve expected. Even when his tentacles were dry, they usually were supple, responsive, and dexterous. The symptoms of frostbite apparently went beyond mere aridity, though, for today his limbs were stiff and his skin cracked every time he stretched and curled the damaged flesh. It hurt like…Steve pushed the thought away.

_I have better things to do than concoct elaborate similes, thank you very much._

_Two: Assess my wounds and determine if it’s worth wasting limited supplies to treat injuries that will heal on their own in the next few days._

_Corollary: A dip in the ocean might be helpful, but only if…_

_Three: Identify a means of restraining the Winter Soldier in case he’s aggressive when he regains consciousness. If he wakes up still under Hydra’s control, I will have to stay with him until he can reliably be left alone, and until I know one way or the other I cannot risk leaving long enough to immerse myself._

_Four: Inventory the supplies remaining in this Soviet outpost._

_Five: Hope like hell there’s food._

_Six: Hope like hell there’s a functional radio._

_Seven: Remember that “hope” is not a plan of action._

_Eight: Observe status of—_

One of Steve’s questing tentacles curled around the flashlight base.

Steve tried to manipulate the tip of his tentacle to press the flashlight toggle, but he couldn’t, the flesh too unresponsive; all he got was a renewed burst of pain each time he tried. Sighing, he transferred the light to his functional hand. His fingers hurt, but at least he could apply pressure to them.

Steve squeezed his eyes shut.

The flashlight flicked on.

Blinking, Steve squinted against the glare and took in the bunker. It was entirely familiar, though Steve wasn’t sure if that was because he remembered it from the previous…night?...or because it was identical to the one where he’d lived last fall. The cabinet stood open, supplies tipped over and spilling out over the floor. The Winter Soldier lay unmoving save for the rise and fall of his chest, mask still hooked over one hear, tugged down to reveal his chin and…

…and that was _definitely_ Bucky.

_Oh my God._

_What…_

_How…_

_What do I…what do I even do with this?_

Steve collapsed heavily onto the cot, which creaked beneath his weight, and stared.

_How did I not see it before? I stared at Bucky day in and day out for fifteen years. He’s been right in front of me for months._

_Why didn’t I recognize him?_

_What the hell is wrong with me?_

Eyes closed, skin pale, the Winter Soldier – James Buchanan Barnes, somehow, inconceivably – _Bucky_ might have been deep in peaceful sleep. With the blanket covering him from the neck down, Steve could almost pretend that a year hadn’t passed…he and Bucky had been on a mission, they’d gotten isolated from the other Commandos, found safety in some abandoned works…it could happen, could _have_ happened. Any minute, Bucky would realize Steve was awake, roll over, give him that dazzling, winning smile that never failed to make Steve’s heart patter like mad, and gesture for Steve to join him beneath the blankets.

_“Dunno how you always look so damn delicious first thing in the morning, Stevie, but hell if I don’t want to eat you up. Get that fine ass of yours back here and let’s take advantage of the last ten minutes of privacy we might ever have…”_

A tingle of desire, utterly inappropriate, utterly misplaced, trailed down Steve’s penile tentacles.

 _Ugh, my dicks turned black – shit, my fingers are black too – that’s_ not _normal, damn frostbite…_

 _…it’ll heal. Stop trying to change the subject, Steve. This isn’t a hallucination, and it isn’t a fantasy, and isn’t some Hydra simulation meant to break and brainwash me. It’s_ not _. This is really a Russian bunker and I really am badly injured and Bucky Barnes,_ my _Bucky Barnes, really tried to kill me yesterday, really shot me in the chest three times, really has a metal arm, really has been tortured and subverted by the worst of mankind…_

_…really survived the fall from Zola’s train…_

_…and I really, truly failed to save him. I could have, and I_ didn’t _._

_I let Peggy talk me out of going back for him, let her override my instincts that screamed to return._

_Because Peggy was right, returning to the Alps for Bucky was folly._

_Except it wasn’t._

_Bucky was alive._

_And I left him to Hydra._

_This is my fault._

Long hair, still wet from the snow, framed Bucky’s face. His eyes, closed, relaxed in sleep, were deep-sunken, ringed in flesh darkened by fatigue or ill-treatment. Even asleep, there was a furrow to his expressive brow that Steve had never seen there before, not even after the worst of days Bucky yet lived at home, not even after Steve rescued Bucky from Hydra.

 _…rescued him the_ first _time…I failed him the second time…_

_…quit it with the self-flagellation, Steve…I saved him this time, and you know what they say – third time’s the charm…_

Stubble thick and dark on Bucky’s chin suggested that he shaved occasionally but hadn’t recently. Steve ruthlessly quashed a memory that teased him with how it felt to have that stubble tickle over Steve’s shin, rub over his neck, abrade the sensitive skin of Steve’s inner thighs. He _knew_ Bucky, inside and out, would know Bucky anywhere, could pick Bucky out by silhouette, stature, body language, expression, from a line-up of thousands.

So Steve had thought, but apparently not.

_No – it’s not that simple. This is Bucky, but it isn’t. His shoulders are broader, made muscular by however Hydra trained or changed him. His hair is longer, his eyes more haunted, his face less expressive…_

The urge to twitch the blanket aside, to remind himself that Bucky had lost an arm, had surely lost far, far more than an arm, was strong, but Steve stopped himself. Exposing Bucky to the cold to satisfy Steve’s curiosity was selfish. If Steve was able to help the Winter Soldier, help Bucky, then they’d have all the time in the world. And if Steve _wasn’t_ able to help...

 _...that will never happen. I’ll help him. I’ll find a way, whatever it takes_.

 _I can’t sit here and mope about the past. I can’t change what happened on the train. I didn’t think anyone could survive that fall. I was wrong. End of story. Will I ever stop feeling guilty that I let Bucky be captured by Hydra, when I had it in my power to go back for him but didn’t because I thought him dead and lost? No, that will haunt me forever. But if I take inadequate care of him now because I’m too busy wallowing to behave as I ought...that will be a whole nother level of grief,_ and _it will be uncontestably my fault._

_I was prepared to do whatever I must to help the Winter Soldier when I thought him a stranger._

_Now that I know he’s Bucky..._

_...but I must continue to treat him as a stranger. He doesn’t remember me. He may_ never _remember me. Even if he recovers from the worst of what was done to him, even if he escapes the yoke of Hydra’s coercion, we still may never be what we once were to each other._

_We may never be anything to each other ever again._

_And I will help him anyway._

Pushing himself off the cot, Steve tackled the first item on his mental to do list.

One: check the Soldier for injuries.

A cursory inspection, carefully conducted so as not to chill him, revealed nothing unexpected. Black-and-blue bruises corded thick around the Soldier’s – _Bucky’s!_ – neck. At his knee, bone had torn through both Bucky’s flesh and the fabric of his pants. The forearm of his flesh arm was broken. Riffling clothing aside revealed contusions, bruises, open wounds, the thin lines left by the whip-like strikes of Steve’s tentacles, and dry blackened areas where the cold had killed the flesh. Even the couple of times Steve accidentally nudged harder than he meant to didn’t cause Bucky to stir, but heat, a steady pulse, and the steady rise and fall of Bucky’s chest confirmed that Bucky yet lived. Old scars crisscrossed Bucky’s skin.

_If he could heal like I do, he wouldn’t have scars…I don’t have scars…_

_…well, except from the acid, so maybe depending on how the wounds formed…_

_…or maybe he didn’t have enhanced healing when Hydra_ started _tormenting him, but does now…_

_Wishful thinking, Steve. I must assume he doesn’t have accelerated healing abilities._

_I’ve let him sit there injured for hours – days, maybe, I have no idea how long I’ve been unconscious! – because I can heal and his abilities so often mirror mine so of_ course _he can heal and meanwhile..._

_No._

_Stop. Fucking. Wallowing._

_This is no different than finding any other wounded combatant on the field and aiding them as best I can. I did my best getting the Winter Soldier to this base. I did my best warming him. And now I’ll do my best to patch him up and help him heal,_ without _the hearty side of self-pity._

_Fuck you, Rogers, Bucky isn’t any random wounded combatant. I know self-delusion and an obsession with duty is how you cope but I refuse to pretend that this situation isn’t emotionally harrowing in entirely new and unique ways from all the other emotionally harrowing shit that’s happened to me in the last few years._

The silent argument continued in his head, but at least his self-reprimanding got his act together and accomplished something. A first aid kit was among the items that had tumbled from the cabinet. Thanks to Sayaana’s help, Steve now knew what every item in the kit was, even those with esoteric names not covered in his crash course in Russian. There wasn’t nearly enough of _anything_ to treat wounds as severe as Bucky had sustained, much less to treat both of them, but Steve made do. There was little Steve could do for the neck wound, the bruises, the frostbite, or the internal injuries suggested by some of Bucky’s more extensively bruised areas. A single small tube was labeled for cold treatment, but Sayaana had told Steve it was snake oil – not that she’d known that idiom, but her meaning had been clear – and even had it been the real deal, there was maybe enough in the tube to cover Bucky’s chest, which would leave the other damaged parts of his skin untreated.

_Not to mention my own frostbite wounds! If I neglect my injuries in favor of treating his I do nothing to further the odds of either of us surviving this._

Bucky’s wounded knee was a mess, two lines of reddened sucker marks surrounding torn flesh and broken, fragmented bone that had frozen and then thawed. Shades of black, red, purple, blue, and yellow showed the spread of internal bleeding and hinted at the extent of the injury beyond what could be seen.

 _God, I_ hope _he has some kind of enhanced healing because if he doesn’t he’ll be lucky to ever walk again._

 _And_ I _did this to him._

 _Because I had to, Steve. Because he was trying to_ kill me. _Would you have rather I let him?_

Steve’s thoughts circled as he administered first aid. The SSR had trained him on field treatment of a variety of wounds – he could bandage a gunshot, splint a broken arm, heck, he even knew a weed common in the European forests that was tops for treating burns – but nothing had prepared him to deal with so severe an injury.

_Pretty sure this was the part of my training where Peggy said, “If everything you can think of to help is only going to make it worse, treat for shock, raise the limb, and wait for someone who actually knows what they’re doing to get there.”_

_Call it a hunch but I think the Red Cross ain’t riding to the rescue._

_Though I did hear something or other about ambulance sleds in the Winter War..._

Steve did his best, pushing the bones back to a facsimile of where they belonged, using a pair of shears from the kit to cut away flesh that was blackened and frozen beyond saving, stitching one or two places he thought might knit together with encouragement.

 _It’s true. I had no choice but to hurt him this severely. Bucky...the Winter Soldier...was trying to kill me,_ really _trying to kill me._

_He’d not done that before._

_What was different? For goodness sake, last time I tried to infiltrate the_ Graf Zeppelin _he murdered someone who tried to hurt me._

_And Bucky is the finest marksman I’ve ever met, yet he missed every time he shot me._

_Or he didn’t miss. Didn’t he say his mission was to capture?_

_But he could have aimed to incapacitate me. Hydra knows I have super human healing abilities; they’d not have held back that information. Surely they’d have instructed Bucky to try for near-lethal shots, render me unconscious, and bring me back, trusting my serum-granted regeneration to undo the damage._

_Bucky could have shot me anywhere he wanted to. He_ wanted _to shoot me somewhere non-lethal and basically non-damaging – or at least as non-damaging as a chest shot can be._

Steve’s first aid skills were mediocre but on the front he’d learned, too well, that if he saw the body he was treating as a _person_ capable of feelings and pain and fear, he’d freeze up. Bucky’s knee was a mess but it wasn’t Bucky’s knee, it was a dead chunk of meat and bone, no different than the cuts of meat that Ma would bring home on the once-in-a-blue-moon occasions when things were flush. The blackened skin he cut away were the rotten bits around the edges, there to be trimmed before cooking the rest. The chips of bone he picked out might as well be the chicken bits he tossed in the stock pot.

_Well, that’s a nauseating thought._

_Let’s try pondering something other than cannibalistic comparisons._

_Fact: Bucky could have killed me or incapacitated me any time in the last four months._

_That he didn’t implies..._

_Theory 1: Hydra didn’t want him to kill me._

_Support for Theory 1: Bucky himself said that I was his mission and that his goal was to…what were his words? “Subdue, contain, and capture.”_

_Objections to Theory 1: If Hydra didn’t want Bucky to kill me before, then what changed? If he wasn’t supposed to kill me, then how did Hydra expect him to capture me? He only tried to dose me that one time – was that what was expected of him_ every _time, and he failed? But_ why _did he fail? Alternatively, if Hydra sent Bucky to kill me time and time again, at our base, at the facilities we attacked, why did he fail? And if they_ didn’t _send him to kill me – recapture seems more likely, so that their crap attempt at turning me into a kraken wouldn’t be a complete failure – then why did he fail? I pulled my punches every time because I thought the Winter Soldier a dupe…_

 _…well, I sure got_ that _right…_

 _But why did_ he _pulls his punches? Whether he was meant to kill me or not, he failed spectacularly, yet Hydra kept sending him._

_Hydra has, time and again, shown a higher degree of ineptitude than I expected from an organization with the span, scope and experience of theirs, but this would be something else again._

_Theory 2: Hydra_ did _want him to kill me, and_ he _made the choice not to._

_Support for Theory 2: He brought my file to the base, talked to me, and left more-or-less peaceably. Despite numerous attempts and ample opportunity, he neither killed nor captured me._

_Objections to Theory 2: What changed? Why did he try to kill me…for the sake of convenience we’ll call it yesterday? Did Hydra innovate some new method of subverting Bucky’s will? Something like..._

_...oh God, that’s why there was an entire_ file _of pictures of me being tortured and “killed” – they used_ me _to break him._

_Oh, Buck..._

Steve’s vision came back into focus to show his hand, still save for a tremble that made the thread he was using to sew Bucky’s wounds shut thrum.

_Okay. Okay. Focus, Steve. Either Hydra wanted me dead all along and Bucky found some way to resist that no longer works, or Hydra didn’t want me dead all along, and something happened to change their minds._

_But considering the preponderance of evidence – that he saved me from someone else who tried to hurt me, that he brought me the file, that he consistently gave me wounds that_ looked _serious while they were actually fairly harmless, that he_ took that damn picture I drew of him _...I think it’s the former. I think Hydra sought my elimination, my capture by any means possible, and Bucky resisted._

_Until he couldn’t any longer._

_What if this was sending him of all people after me was their idea of poetic justice? Or a test of Bucky’s brain-washing? What if what I’m perceiving as their ineptitude was actually meant as a test of_ Bucky _, rather than of him? If they could brainwash him enough that he’d kill me, they’d know they’d achieved a fait accompli – they’d know that Bucky could be ordered to do anything, no matter how depraved, and that Bucky’s will would be too broken to resist._

_Always were great at wishful thinking, Steve._

_No – no, Rogers. I let you shit talk me, denigrate me, talk down to me, treat me like a nincompoop and a dupe and an idiot, but I will_ not _let you – I_ will not _tear myself down for drawing reasonable conclusions from the available evidence._

_Hydra almost certainly wants me dead._

_And Bucky, whatever he does or doesn’t remember, has been protecting me._

_Probably at extremely high personal cost to himself. They probably—_

_No. No. Stop. I do_ not _want to think how Hydra punishes the failures of a high-level operative._

_It’s enough to know that this most recent time, Bucky didn’t pull his punches, and that whatever was done to him was severe enough that his resistance finally broke._

_There’s no way to know what he’ll be like when he wakes up, but I should expect the worst._

Despite the flesh Steve had cut away, there wasn’t a trace of blood on the shear blades as Steve used them to cut the thread he’d used to stitch Bucky’s wounds shut. The wound was still a mess of gashes, bone, blood, and blackened flesh. Steve stared at it, helpless.

 _A combat medic would_ _amputate._

_I am not a combat medic._

With a sigh, Steve forced himself to call the work to Bucky’s splintered knee ‘done’ and move on. He gave Bucky another once over, shifting the blanket and Bucky’s clothes around to minimize the amount of skin exposed to the cold, but found no other injuries within the scope of his ability to treat.

Steve rolled back onto what passed for his hips, settled onto the floor, and blinked slowly. Aching tentacles curled around him, and he watched them twitch and twist with unfocused eyes. By the scant light of the flashlight they looked monstrous, dark skin mottled with red sores, and Steve felt disembodied, disconnected, unable to comprehend that those limbs were part of his body, that the pain beating a constant drum roll in his head was the result of the multitude of limbs writhing around him.

_Even if Bucky does remember himself when he wakes up, what will he think of me?_

_I’m a monster._

Light gleamed off the metal of Bucky’s shoulder, drew Steve’s eye to the horrid bruises mottling Bucky’s neck. With every rise and fall of Bucky’s chest, his neck tensed, and Steve watched as something caught the light and seemed to flicker.

Hydra had cut slits into Bucky’s neck, but they’d been obscured by the wounds overlaying them.

Gills.

_Maybe…maybe we could be monsters together?_

A whimper caught in Steve’s throat as sorrow, loneliness, and agony washed over him.

_Bucky is dead._

_Except he’s not._

_Except he might be._

_He’s right here, right in front of me, but I can’t…I mustn’t…_

_I have to…_

_…have to…_

Tears pooled in his eyes. Steve ignored them. His vision swam, but he focused as best he could. Propping the flashlight on the desk beside the radio, he assessed his wounds. They were dire; anyone who hadn’t been dosed with super soldier serum and then stitched onto an octopus would be dead.

_Funny, Rogers. Real comedian._

_Better than you, cry baby._

Steve used his good hand to wipe away the tears, as if doing so could deny the sentiments that had prompted them. Emotionally, physically, everything hurt. There was no telling which of his many wounds was most dire. Wherever his focus shifted, the pain intensified. Examining his chest wounds? Agonizing. Assessing the extent of the frostbite damage to his tentacles? Excruciating. Trying to make anything of the crunched mess of his hand? Nigh unbearable. Using stiff fingers to poke tentatively at his smashed nose? Harrowing. The damage was so extensive, and Steve’s dexterity with his left hand and his stiff, dry tentacles so poor, that there was little he could do to treat himself.

_No point anyway. I’ll heal – I’m healing._

He could slightly flex the fingers in his right hand. He could draw breath through his nose without his mouth flooding with blood. The edges of his bullet wounds showed new pink skin.

_Bucky may have no enhanced ability to recover._

_My best course is to leave my wounds to knit as they will and save our supplies to treat him as best I can._

Steve packed the contents of the first aid kit back into their box.

_Next step…next step is…_

Rising was arduous, unpleasant, and – like everything he did – painful, and he sank gratefully into the chair before the radio. Using a tentacle to hold the flashlight up, he set the dials to the emergency contact frequency he’d set up with Takumi and Alison. A member of the Crew would be monitoring the channel 24/7, awaiting Steve’s signal, until he returned to base.

_Maybe I’m still in the first bunker…maybe this has all been a dream…maybe…maybe…_

_Denial has never been a good look on me, Steve. Yeah, this situation stinks on ice, but I have to own it and make the best of it._

_Only way out is through. Let’s make that the new mantra, shall we? It worked yesterday, got me to this bunker, and for today…_

Steve flipped the radio on.

Nothing happened. Not a whisper of static came from the speaker, not a trace of light flickered behind the dials, not a single reading spiked. Panic clenched at Steve’s chest, peppered him with bolts of agony that confirmed, irrelevantly, that the ragged gunshot holes were in fact the most painful of his injuries. Hand shaking, Steve tuned to other frequencies, but the radio remained stubbornly inert.

 _No – I have to,_ have to _be able to contact Peggy, have to reach the Crew! They’ll worry – they don’t know Bucky is alive – don’t know where I am – and I’m alone, alone in here with him, and geeze when did the prospect of being alone with Bucky become a source of terror? We need help, he needs help, so much more help than I’m able to give him…_

Tears falling more quickly, Steve was ashamed to realize that in his distress he was shaking his head, muttering fervent denials under his breath.

“No, no, no, the radio _has_ to work, it has to, we need to…”

The radio didn’t work.

Steve didn’t know jack-all about fixing a radio.

_Alright…new plan, I take Bucky, we leave, we try to get back to base. Bucky has gills now, presumably to better pursue me, so he can swim – God, did they fill his lungs with water like they did mine? Did they drown him over and over until they were sure the modifications worked? How could they do that to him, no, don’t think about it, don’t think about it – I feel awful but I could try to carry him, try to get us out of here, right?_

Frantic for no reason he could put his finger on, Steve flailed his away across the room, tried to grab the doorknob with his wounded hand, and _screamed_. His tentacles went limp beneath him and he collapsed against the wall, cradling his hand and crying helplessly.

 _We don’t even have food! We don’t have water! I didn’t rescue the Winter Soldier, didn’t rescue_ Bucky _, so that I could see which can kill us faster: dehydration, starvation, the wounds we inflicted on each other, or the cold!_

Clutching the hand to himself, Steve reached out with his other arm and tried the knob. Ice cracked and crunched, the metal brutally chilled, and Steve pulled it open.

With a shriek of training hinges, the door swung maybe a half foot into the room, snow pouring through the opening, before it got stuck. Steve tugged, tugged, straining muscles protesting, a trickle of liquid down his chest speaking to his wounds reopening, but it wouldn’t budge.

Steve could lift a fucking _car_ but he couldn’t open the bunker door.

The flashlight showed him a wall of ice, so solid that when the beam wasn’t on it, it read as black. A sheen of melt made the surface glitter like flowing water and a clump of snow that had rolled near Bucky deformed into a sodden blob, water forming a growing puddle around him.

_Good thing the first: it’s warm enough in here for the ice to melt. Amen to the insulation snow provides and accumulated body heat._

_Good thing the second: water!_

_Bad thing: that is a metric ton – actually, probably,_ literally _several metric tons – of snow._

Steve couldn’t contact help.

Steve couldn’t leave.

The batteries in the flashlight, the stash of extras in the cabinet, wouldn’t last forever.

An empty, disconsolate feeling settled in Steve’s chest, hollow and senseless compared to the pain he doubted he’d ever grow accustomed to.

 _There’s nothing I can do_.

Steve could fight off countless foes, weather torment, push through grief, rally himself time and time again to keep fighting.

There was no one here to fight.

There was nothing here to rail against.

There was nothing.

_When my hand heals, when my tentacles are in better shape, I can dig my way out. If Bucky wakes up, he’ll be able to help. That metal arm is pretty ace._

_But until then…_

Hauling himself to the cot was one of the hardest things Steve had ever done. Memories whispered of the bleakness he’d felt after his mother died, the melancholy that Bucky’s death had brought, and he wondered what about the current situation evoked the same misery.

_Our situation isn’t utterly hopeless. Far from! I’ll be healed in the next few days. I dug us into this bunker, I’ll dig us out. There is so much cause for optimism…_

The flashlight swept over Bucky’s worn, tired, scarce recognizable, achingly familiar face, and Steve sighed and slumped against the cold wall.

_…and yet I’m depressed._

Steve turned the flashlight off.

Steve lay on the cot.

Steve stared at the ghost image of Bucky yet glowing against his retinas.

_Waiting is the worst…_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next chapter posts Saturday, July 1st, 2017.


	16. Chapter 16

_“Nice…that feels nice…”_

_There was no knowing where the touches came from. Everywhere. Nowhere. All Steve knew was that life had been agony for so so so so so so long and the fingers brushing over his skin were gentle, caring, and his skin didn’t hurt, his stomach wasn’t empty, his mind didn’t ache with loneliness. Even as he had the thought that this was_ new _, this was_ different _, it skittered away and he couldn’t remember why he’d thought this pleasantness wasn’t ubiquitous._

_His eyes opened._

_Bucky looked down at him, smiling._

_Blink._

_The Winter Soldier looked down at him, smiling._

_Blink._

_The two faces blurred together, merged, drifted apart as if the punch that had shattered Steve’s nose had given him double vision._

Wait. Shattered my nose?

_Steve lifted a trembling hand to his face. Pain rippled outward, intensifying the closer he got to his nose, even though the flesh felt intact._

_The Winter Soldier chuckled. The man_ looked _like Bucky, short hair, warm smile, twinkling eyes, but Bucky would never – had never – made a noise like that._

_“Which are you?” breathed Steve._

_“Heil Hydra” was the gruff reply._

_Instinct suggested Steve should be afraid, but he wasn’t. Neither Bucky nor the Winter Soldier would ever hurt him._

_Agony exploded through Steve’s chest._

Steve jerked awake with a gasp, but the dream didn’t end – couldn’t end – and the pain intensified. The room was black, and Steve couldn’t remember where he was, couldn’t think why it was dark, couldn’t imagine why everything hurt.

“Why won’t you _die_?” snarled an unfamiliar, achingly familiar voice. Inconceivably, the torment intensified. Scrambling with a hand – _that hurts too, why?_ – Steve fumbled, trying to find his wound.

His fingers found cold metal.

Embedded in his stomach.

Steve groaned.

 _He…he_ stabbed _me._

_Again!_

“You… _have_ …to die!” Every word came strained from Bucky.

_No. I refuse to call this twisted facsimile Bucky, this is the Winter Soldier!_

_Oh for fuck’s sake Steve they’re the same person and the sooner I accept that the better_.

Steve wrapped his hand around the blade and wrenched it free, indifferent as it cut into his fingers. In a direct contest, strength-for-strength, Steve wasn’t sure if he could out-muscle the Winter Soldier, but either the man wasn’t trying his hardest or was weakened by injury or something, regardless, Steve seized the knife, wrapped his more functional hand around the hilt, and drove it into the floor with all his might. Concrete cracked and the blade snapped.

_…well, it’s no sword in the stone, but at least he won’t stab me again…_

… _we’re in the USSR, in the bunker, that’s why it’s dark, that’s why Bucky stabbed me…fuck that hurts_ …

Warmth spoke to the Winter Soldier’s proximity, a glow almost like light in the pitch black of the room. Steve hopped to his feet…

…and collapsed.

_No feet. Tentacles._

_Right._

A blow whooshed over his head – where his head _would_ have been, had he been standing – and Steve lashed out, wrapped tentacles around the Winter Soldier’s legs, and dragged him to the ground.

Bucky screamed.

_No…not…he’s not Bucky, not right now, he’s still a Hydra tool, and—_

_Come off it, Rogers. We can pretend in the quiet of our own head that_ Steve _and_ Rogers _are anything other than two competing facets of my personality, but the truth is there is only one of me, and there’s only one Bucky._

_If the Winter Soldier is hurt, if the Winter Soldier screams, that’s Bucky screaming._

Flailing with another tentacle, Steve estimated where Bucky’s head must be based on Steve’s hold on his legs, whipped outward, struck something solid, and shoved whatever he’d hit into the wall.

_And if I slam the Winter Soldier’s head into the wall, then I’ve slammed Bucky’s head into the wall._

_And yeah, I feel terrible about that._

_But he’s trying to kill me, and until he breaks free of Hydra’s programming…_

_…if he breaks free of Hydra’s programming…_

_…this is what I need to do. For both of us._

_I’d better figure out a way to restrain him._

Blood was pungent in the air, and Steve slumped on the floor. Even getting back on the cot seemed too much effort. Feeling blindly with his tentacles, Steve identified hands – legs – torso – and he rearranged Bucky into the semblance of a comfortable position and lifted him onto the cot.

_Now…that done…I can just lie here, right?_

_No…if I don’t figure out a way to bind him, this will keep happening._

Sighing, Steve forced himself up, retrieved the flashlight, and flicked it on. Bucky’s head was turned at an awkward angle; Steve used two tentacles to right it, only to find Bucky’s eyes were still open. Without the mental anguish of his alter ego twisting him, he looked…he looked disturbingly like _himself_. Shuddering, Steve used two suction cups to draw Bucky’s lids down. At least, awake, Steve wasn’t in nearly as much pain as he had been earlier. Either that or his new wound drowned out the other aches, a day-old bullet hole mere background noise compared to getting stabbed in the stomach.

Though Steve had a good sense of the contents of the bunker, he looked through everything anyway. A quick inventory of the cabinet and the chest confirmed an identical complement of supplies to those in the bunker he’d previously lived in. There was a length of rope, but Steve doubt it had the tensile strength to hold Bucky, and three blankets. Opting for overkill, Steve gathered up all the blankets and the rope and returned to the cot. He set the flashlight at an angle to give him a triangle of light in which to work and used the rope to bind Bucky’s legs to the cot’s support frame. Bucky’s knee was bleeding again, wound exacerbated by his recent movements – _by his attempt on my life, I mean, way to go on the euphemisms, Rogers…or was that Steve…damn if I can tell anymore._

_Maybe that’s a good thing._

Steve tore a strip from one of the blankets and used it to loosely bind Bucky’s knee. He had no idea if a bandage was appropriate for such a wound but at least it would absorb the blood and help keep the injury warm. Eying the remaining woolens, Steve tucked an end of one blanket under Bucky’s back and wrapped it around Bucky’s body and the cot, round and round, adding the second blanket and the third to make sure that Bucky was secured from knee to shoulder. If Bucky got leverage, he was surely strong enough to shatter the cot and break free, but Steve had few options. The cot was the strongest piece of furniture in the room, and that wasn’t saying much. At least, bound as he was, Bucky would have a hard time utilizing his strength effectively. It might take him a whole minute to get free, instead of a mere thirty seconds.

Retrieving the flashlight, Steve turned in a slow circle, letting the beam play over the various surfaces in the room. It was cold, dark, like being trapped in a mausoleum, silent save for the slow but steady plop-plop-plop of Steve bleeding from his abdominal wound.

_Should I be worried about that?_

_Cold can’t kill me. Drowning can’t kill me. Getting shot in the heart can’t kill me. Something tells me – call it a hunch – that blood loss would is nothing to worry about._

_Can I die at all? What about old age? What about incineration? What about poison? If someone does something horrible like…like switch out my blood for mercury, or shove me in a room filled with phosgene, and decide I belong inside a crematorium, will I just die and revive over and over and over again? Or will I not revive until I’m removed from the deadly situation? Or might I die permanently?_

_Macabre. Good job. All those scenarios, super likely, definitely worth dwelling on obsessively._

_It’s not_ completely _implausible. How many times did Hydra drown me?_

_I remember three._

_The records that the Winter Soldier…Bucky…brought me indicate 48._

_And it’s not like obsessing about this is anything new for me. When I read my file I counted how many times they drowned me to satisfy my curiosity. And memorized the answer._

_But even so…I need a distraction._

The light swept over the disorganized, open cabinet, the non-functional radio, the ice-ringed puddles on the floor. There were plenty of tasks that Steve could engage in: water to be gathered, supplies to be catalogued, the radio to repair. Steve’s wound was excruciating, but it wouldn’t be less excruciating if he lay and rested.

_Enough wallowing._

_I’m alive._

_Bucky is alive._

_And if I’m going to keep us both that way…_

Sitting in the chair before the radio, Steve used a tentacle to grab the tool box from the cabinet, tugged the radio around, got a screw driver, and started removing the back plate.

_We’re going to survive this, and Bucky is going to heal._

_I believe that._

_I have to believe that._

_So I just have to keep it together until then._

_…_

_Since when am I this unstable? Since when am I this needy? I was never like this before, in Brooklyn, in the army…_

_…of course not. Because I was never alone. I always had Bucky._

_I’m not alone now. It’s unfair to Peggy, to Falsworth and the Commandos, to Alison and Lydia and Sayaana and Takumi and Carlos, to everyone who has helped me and supported me, to all my comrades in arms, to act like I’m less solely because I don’t have Bucky._

_But if I’m honest with myself…being with them isn’t the same. I can try to do better, try not to tie all my hopes of happiness to the life of one person, and I can function and go on, but…_

_…but Bucky is the love of my life. From day one…_

_…and I thought losing him was the worst, but I was wrong. Losing him only to get him back except_ not _get him back…that’s worse._

 _No matter what, I’ve got to get Bucky_ actually _back._

_I will save him. As many times as I have to._

* * *

Bucky jerked violently awake, snarling like an enraged beast and struggling against his restraints.

Steve knocked him out.

Even though Steve had triple checked that Bucky was disarmed, Bucky managed to cut through most of one blanket before Steve realized he was conscious again.

_Disarmed. The man with the metal arm. Who is a weapon. So disarmed. Ha. ha. ha. Vaudeville here I come._

Steve knocked him out.

The crack of the cot breaking snapped like thunder through the quiet bunker, waking Steve up to find Bucky still trapped by the blankets, glaring at Steve malevolently, face a mask of fury as he tried to free himself.

“It doesn’t have to be this way...” Steve suggested plaintively.

Bucky growled at him, baring teeth like an animal.

_In other circumstances, that’d be a good look on him..._

Steve knocked him out.

So went hours or days, Steve couldn’t have said. Only two measures gave him any sense of the passage of time: the flickering of the flashlight as Steve burned through his supply of batters, and the healing of his wounds – minimal, suggesting either that little time had passed, or that Steve’s natural healing was compromised by the severity of the damage and the continued aggravation of his wounds caused by his unwillingness to take a damn break. When he was down to one battery, and Bucky was insensible yet again, Steve steeled himself against the pain that every movement caused, pulled the door open, and dug his way through the snow using the metal backing from the radio as a shovel. The radio was less useful than a paperweight, and despite expending two batteries worth of light on examination and attempts at repair, he had nothing. At least if it worked as a shovel it was useful for _something_.

The closer to the surface Steve got, the more the ice paled, from black to navy to glittering sky blue where sunlight refracted within the water crystals. Steve nearly had a hand to freedom when agony lanced through one of his tentacles.

Bucky was awake again.

Steve knocked him out again.

The cot wasn’t salvageable, and there wasn’t anything else strong enough to hold Bucky, enraged and maddened as he was. A severed tentacle twitched and flopped on the ground, and for an insane moment Steve wondered if _that_ could be used to restrain Bucky, but he dismissed the idea. The tentacles didn’t knot well, and Bucky had established repeatedly that Steve’s flesh wasn’t powerful enough to resist Bucky’s strength even when still attached to Steve’s body; disconnected, the limb was nigh useless.

_That I even considered it speaks volumes about my stress levels, though._

_I really wish he’d stop tearing my “arms” off._

_I have_ got _to get us out of here._

Steve gutted the radio and used the wires from within to bind Bucky’s hands and ankles together. Odds were that Bucky could bust out in about five seconds flat, but it was better than no restraints at all. Looking around, Steve decided to prop Bucky in the chair and use the frayed rope to tie him to that for good measure. It wouldn’t stop him, but it _might_ briefly slow him down. Any warning Steve got before Bucky’s next ballistic outburst would be helpful. Heck, once, what felt like a lifetime ago, Steve had even managed to knock Bucky out _before_ he did any serious damage.

_I hope I’m not scrambling his brains even more than Hydra already scrambled them..._

_...but what choices do I have?_

Escaping into sunlight felt like emerging from purgatory after eternity trapped in the shadows between.

_Another reason to get out. Isolation is turning me into a Romantic poet. Bucky would weep to hear it._

Steve didn’t realize how much hope he’d pinned on escaping their prison until he stepped out into the open, looked around, and was laid low by disappointment. Salvation didn’t lie beyond the bunker doors. Purgatory was so much bigger than the tiny bunker, and Steve had been trapped longer than whatever brief time he’d been buried beneath the snow with the Winter Soldier. A blanket of white stretched as far as Steve could see in every direction, rising and falling with the lay of the land or rocks or ice beneath, and only the dark hulk of the _Graf Zeppelin_ spoke to ocean beneath the sparkling white.

_Siberia is hell._

_But so was Europe, fighting against the Nazis. I could have left there at any time, returned to the home front, resumed my USO shows. I didn’t, because staying was the right thing to do._

_I will stay here until Hydra is destroyed and every last PoW who can be saved, has been._

Quelling the hopeless feeling that looking out over miles of ice brought him, Steve shook his head, shook away his bleakness.

_Good things..._

_One: we can leave the bunker...as soon as Bucky stops trying to attack me every single damn time he wakes up._

_...that’s not really a good thing._

_Two: the film of ice melting against my tentacles actually feels damn good..._

A gust of wind swept snow from the ground in misty veils and that froze against Steve’s aching skin. The momentary melt recrystalized in Steve’s wounds.

_...until it didn’t feel good._

_Ow._

_So, also not a good thing._

Steve sighed.

_Rogers, if you’re going to take a big steaming dump atop every positive thing I try to think of, I’m going to stop._

_Let’s get the snow off the skylight. At least that way, I can shed some light on our temporary living quarters, and if I’m careful Hydra shouldn’t be able to see the difference until they get close enough that we’d be screwed up anyway._

Circling to the far side of the bunker, Steve tunneled into the snow buried feet deep atop the building.

_Just gotta hollow out the center, like a bagel!_

Steve’s stomach grumbled.

There was no food in the bunker.

_But the time will pass more pleasantly with light, and I’ll be able to tell how many days have elapsed. This is worth the effort and the pain._

A dull crunch, audible through the concrete roof of the bunker, pulled Steve’s attention from his task just as he got enough snow off the skylight that he could see the glass. With another heavy sigh, he shimmied back out of the tunnel he’d dug and dropped into the hole before the bunker doorway.

Bucky stood framed in the doorway.

Bucky _hissed_ fury at him.

Steve knocked him out.

Faint light trickled into the bunker through the skylight.

_See? Isn’t that much better? Positively homey._

_Sometimes, Steve, I’m not sure if I hate you or love you._

_The feeling’s mutual, Rogers._

* * *

Twenty four hours in a day.

Eight hours of sunlight.

Anywhere from two to six hours between Bucky’s eruptions.

Hours – so many hours – _sixteen_ endless hours of darkness, without even the flashlight for company, the batteries all expended.

At least three days, and possibly as much as double that, come and gone since Steve’s ill-fated assault on the _Graf Zeppelin_.

In the dark of the night, with the lights of the ship glittering like sunrise on the horizon, Steve had managed to bag them a polar bear. There was no way to cook the meat, but as Steve had unfortunately had cause to learn during the Depression, food was food was food, raw or well done or maggoty. When the alternative was starving, even the most unappetizing options became palatable.

Raw polar bear wasn’t even on the low end of the scale, compared to other disgusting things Steve had, by necessity, consumed.

For better or for worse, Bucky’s noggin was now rattled enough that he went down pretty easily when Steve dealt him a blow to the head, but Bucky’s other wounds were healing quickly, even his knee, and with the improvement in Bucky’s health came celerity, stealth, and strength. Steve rarely realized that Bucky was awake before Bucky did him serious harm. Every time Bucky awoke he was more healed than the previous time, whereas Steve’s recovery was akin to treading water, wounds exacerbated by his exertions as he attempted to improve their living conditions and find an escape for them. Hunting, melting ice, poking listlessly at the radio, keeping an eye on the _Graf Zeppelin_ , tending to Bucky, keeping them both clean and fed and hydrated, all took energy and time.

Even when there was nothing to do, in the deepest dark of midnight, Steve lay on the floor and stared up at the skylight, wondering trying to plot them a way to freedom and safety. Pain and anxiety combined to render sleep out of reach until exhaustion left Steve wrung out and dozed, usually only to be woken soon after by Bucky’s latest attack. Trails of blood crisscrossed the bunker, mirroring the paths Steve followed, and splotches marked where he stopped and rested.

Steve had more time than he knew what to do with, more time than he could utilize effectively with his limited resources.

Energy?

Not so much.

Steve had been out of water for a _week_.

Given how often Bucky awoke unpredictably, grew violent, armed himself, and attacked, Steve didn’t dare leave him alone for the amount of time it’d take Steve to punch his way through the ice and settle into the soothing, relatively warm waters of the ocean. Awake or asleep, Steve’s healing plodded along, but his serum-granted powers did nothing to ease the stretched, worn-out feeling of Steve’s skin. It was impossible to tell if the frostbite damage to his tentacles had healed. Whether it had or not, Steve’s tentacles still consistently, continually felt like they’d had sandpaper rubbed over them.

At least his hand was mostly healed. Even the skin on his torso was affected by being out of water – his body still changing to accommodate the modifications Hydra had made – but Bucky no longer wasted time on Steve’s extremities, instead opting to attack Steve’s chest or back or head. Bucky had broken Steve’s nose _three more times_ , had tried to strangle him, and had tried to punch his metal fist through Steve’s heart…

…it wasn’t pleasant.

The rare but vicious fights he and Bucky had during their prior relationship seemed like the epitome of healthy communication by contrast. Steve would give _anything_ to have Bucky blessing him out again over something that wasn’t Steve’s fault. At least then Bucky would be talking to him.

_Instead, Bucky keeps trying to kill me, and if ostensibly it’s not my fault..._

_...if I’d done as I should have in the first place and returned to the mountains to find him, none of this would happened to him...none of this would have happened to either of us..._

_Yeah, thanks Steve, and when we finally get out of this hell hole I’ll contact Stark and ask him how progress on his time machine is going. Until then, let’s focus on the problems that can be_ fixed _instead of dwelling on “might have beens.” I didn’t go back. With what I knew at the time, that was the right choice. Hindsight is 20/20._

 _God, being trapped here is_ boring _. No wonder I’m stuck in a cycle of arm-chair quarterbacking._

_Time for a distraction..._

Turning to a relatively blank page of the signal book, filled with Cyrillic text but as yet otherwise unmarked, Steve took up the rock that served as his pencil and idly sketched around the writing. The idiot who had assembled the supplies for the outpost forgot that ink froze, and the three pens Steve had found were useless, ink solid, capsules exploded when the water expanded. However, as the days passed and wind scoured the coast, the snow moved, reconfigured, and patches of rock were bared. Fortuitously, Steve stumbled during one of his explorations, his hand went down hard on the shore, and when he rose there was a film of black on his skin, rub off from whatever the strange stones were.

If Steve wasn’t careful, the jagged edges tore the flimsy paper, but if he was careful, he could draw to fill the hours.

At first, Steve had been unhappy at the lack of blank paper, but his optimism finally found a useful outlet. Instead of seeing the text on the page as an obstruction, he used it as inspiration. Lines of text broken by wide spaces became a forest, the Russian letters remade as the roughness of bark. A list, each line short, mimicked the shadows of a woman’s brow and high cheekbones and chin. Rough scrawl done with too little ink became the smoke of a fire in a town Steve had seen burn during the war.

By the uneven light that streamed through the skylight, Steve let his imagination fly.

It was incredibly nice, incredibly therapeutic, to _create_ , instead of destroy.

In every image, Steve saw the reminder that however he’d been changed, by the serum, by the war, by Hydra, at his core he was still the same man he’d been. When his mother had died, Steve had coped by repeatedly drawing the bouquet of flowers that the local Veteran’s Aid had sent, tracing in lead day by day as they went from fresh and bright and alive to dead and dry. The Aid society had said they couldn’t do more to help him, that the Depression had left too many war widows and war orphans in need and they were stretched thin, that they could only afford to send flowers because they grew them on the roof of their Lower East Side tenement headquarters.

If Steve could have politely declined even that much consideration, he would have. He was 18, and his mother’s ceaseless work at multiple jobs had given Steve the freedom to only work one himself and actually finish high school. She’d wanted him to go to college. That was obviously a pipe dream, even more so after her death, but he could take on more hours at his job, find a second job, and make ends meet. He didn’t need the charity half so much as some widowed mother of four did, a quarter so much as the men who’d come back from the war unable to breathe without agony or with missing limbs or with debilitating injuries.

Bucky asked for Steve’s drawings, and Steve gave them to him. They were mediocre anyway, the last depicting naught but dried stalks, a vase of miasmic water, and the tattered detritus of petals and pollen scattered on the table beneath. Depressing to look at, too, as much a reminder of what Steve had lost as his mother’s empty chair, as much a reminder as the perpetual silence in his apartment.

Bucky took those pictures, brought them to the Vet’s Aid, and told them about Steve’s situation. One of the veterans on the board was dean of Auburndale, and managed to finagle the scholarship fund to get Steve into art school.

Art school was Steve’s dream.

He came within an inch of telling them all to stuff their charity.

_“Why’d you go and do a thing like that, Buck? I can manage on my own!’_

_“Of course you can, Steve! But you don’t_ have _to, and I will do whatever I gotta, however often I gotta, until you_ see _that!”_

Steve caved.

He never could say no to Bucky.

Turning the signal book on its side, Steve rendered the lines of text into the skyline of Manhattan as seen from the windows of the art school. The angular text rose jaggedly, or cascaded like a waterfall into the roof of the Chrysler Building. The white spaces within each letter became the multitudinous windows of the Empire State Building, a single long line of text the radio tower atop it. Blank underlines on the right edge of the page – now the bottom edge – were perfectly situated to form the suspension system of the Brooklyn Bridge in the foreground. Homesickness settled heavy on Steve’s shoulders, for Brooklyn, for 1939, for his first _real_ job doing architectural sketches for the Brooklyn Historical Society, for his awfully uncomfortable bed in his terrible pokey apartment that never seemed cold or barren or empty so long as Bucky was with him. Leaning against the chilly wall – Bucky had destroyed the chair – Steve held up his drawing and stared at it. He could imagine the sounds of the workers at the nearby Navy Yard shouting at each other, the rattle of the equipment, the humming of motors and honking of horns and ringing of church bells, the constant background slosh of water, the familiar cacophonous song of New York City ringing out in a chorus around him. If he closed his eyes, he could see his apartment, see Bucky’s apartment, feel hands on his skin and lips against his.

_Even if I go back there, I’m so damn tall now I’ll whack my head on the door jamb._

_And something tells me old Mr. Kallias won’t appreciate a squid for a neighbor, even if I’m careful and don’t track water into the place._

_Then again, he might not mind. Cuttlefish always was his favorite. How often did he offer me that soup yes me spanky stuff?_

_Maybe I should start cutting off tentacles and eating those. They’ll grow back, and I bet I taste pretty good, though I’d be better cooked with olive oil and spinach…_

Steve shuddered. He was hungry enough to force himself to slurp down bloody chunks of polar bear, but self-cannibalism was something else again.

_Amazing what crazy stuff my brain concocts when I haven’t had any human contact in a week or more…_

_No matter how much that annoying, duty-bound part of me – no matter how much_ Rogers _likes to think I can go it alone…_

_…no man is an island…_

_…but some men – at least one man – are squids._

Steve snorted a laugh.

Something made a clicking sound.

_No, not again…damm it, Buck…just this once, can’t we—_

Steve’s eyes flew open, chuckles cut off short, and his shoulders tensed as he prepared for the attack surely to come.

From across the room, Bucky stared at him, wide-eyed, mouth agape.

But he didn’t move.

Steve eased his defensive posture, met Bucky’s gaze, and then slowly, deliberately, leaned forward, set his sad – _no, fascinating_ – excuse for a sketch pad on the mass of tentacles curled into the semblance of a lap before him, took up his rock, and started sketching out his tenement kitchen on the next page.

_This weird white box in the middle of the page is perfect to be that hideous old oven that Mr. Kallias foisted off on me…_

Bucky’s jaw dropped farther, and Steve alternated between glancing at what he drew and glaring a challenge at his best friend-slash-lover turned would-be assassin.

_Come on, Winter Soldier. Attack me._

_You know you want to._

Bucky didn’t move.

Steve’s hand skimmed effortlessly over the paper, healed from when Bucky crushed it aside from occasional twinges of pain from his knuckles and the mottled white-and-red of new-formed skin. The kitchen was tiny, as the entire apartment was tiny, with a single counter, two burners, a sink, and a board placed over the bathtub to make a table. Even before Steve’s growth post-serum, the path between the stove and the table had been so narrow that he constantly had black-and-blue spots on his hips where he hit a corner on one side or the other. Finding room for an easel in had been a challenge. The further Steve sunk into memories, the more he focused on his page, adding details: the clothesline he hung between the walls on laundry day, the scratches alongside the lock where some past tenant had constantly missed with their key, the worn curtains that his mother had made and hung that last spring, that he’d never had the heart to take down no matter the season.

_Can’t have winter curtains up now that the weather has warmed, Steve!_

_I know, ma, and the opposite too, not spring curtains in the winter, but as long as they’re hanging over the windows, it’s almost like you’re still..._

_It’s all gone now, anyway. As far as the world is concerned, I’m a year dead. Mr. Kallias must have subletted to a new tenant. I hope whoever they are finds as much joy in the place as I did._

“What are you doing?”

The Winter Soldier’s gruff voice was loud in the confined space. It was the first time he’d spoken since Steve had captured him, since Steve had found out that the Soldier was Bucky. Listening now, Steve caught a familiar twang but he wasn’t surprised he’d not recognized the voice. There’d always been a suaveness, a lightness, a trace of humor, a smile behind Bucky’s words. The Winter Soldier sounded like he’d gargled gravel and hadn’t laughed once in a lifetime of screaming.

“I’m drawing a picture of the apartment where I used to live,” Steve explained. Looking up, he met Bucky’s eyes, wide and clear and distant. A scowl seemed permanently etched into lips that had once smirked and smiled and spread around easy laughter.

_He’s not Bucky – not exactly, not really. I will remind myself however many times I must: he is not Bucky._

_But maybe he can be again._

“Would you like to see?” offered Steve, setting his rock aside. Bucky’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, his metal arm rising in self-defence. Steve kept his movements slow, telegraphing his intentions as he turned the book around and held it up to the light, held it toward Bucky, so that he could see. “You’ve been there.”

“I haven’t,” Bucky snapped, scarce looking at the image, turning away to direct his distrustful expression at the wall.

Steve turned the book back around and gazed at the picture, mind filling the lifeless, empty space he’d flattened onto paper with living memories: of trying to fit two grown men into the bathtub, of meals shared at the table, of the feel of Bucky pressing him against the counter, bending him over, filling him.

“I know you don’t remember,” said Steve, looking back to Bucky and giving him a gentle smile. “It’s alright.”

“It’s _not_ ,” snarled Bucky. “I know what this is – I know what you’re doing!”

“What am I doing?” Steve asked blankly.

“You know this won’t hold me,” Bucky continued, voice made rough by vented rage. “You know what happens when I wake up.” He jerked back to face Steve, lifted his arms and with a single flex he snapped the wires that Steve had twined around his wrists. “You _know_ I can, I _will_ , kill you.” Of course the bindings wouldn’t hold Bucky. “We both know that _you_ could _easily_ kill me.” That had never been Steve’s intention; he’d learned the hard way, repeatedly, that nothing in the bunker was strong enough to restrain the Winter Soldier. “Instead, you keep attempting and _failing_ to incapacitate me.” However, Steve had tugged the wires taut, and when they snapped the resulting _ping_ of metal recoiling under tension would have, hopefully, given Steve a few minutes warning before Bucky tried to kill him for the dozenth time. “Instead, you keep _letting_ me hurt you.” Judging by the way Bucky held the wire, drawing it straight, wrapping the ends round and round his two pointer fingers, Steve thought an attempted garroting was in his future. “W—” Bucky’s mouth snapped shut on whatever he’d been about to say and he went a little green about the gills, literally, the skin of Bucky’s neck discoloring.

_The metal arm is obvious, the gills cut in his neck unmistakable, but what else have they done to him, what chemicals have the pumped into his blood? He’s even more resistant to cold than I am, incredibly strong and fast...but what’s making him change colors? Can he camouflage? Then why dress him all in black?_

_For dramatic effect, obviously._

_Hardy har._

_Hey, Rogers, at least I have a sense of humor._

“Ask anything you want,” Steve offered. He was so _tired_ of fighting with everyone, but _especially_ with the Winter Soldier. “You’re right – I won’t kill you.”

“I’ll kill _you_.” The fury in Bucky’s words was at odds with his stillness; energy radiated from him so powerfully that Steve could swear he saw Bucky vibrating with it. He seemed on the verge of lunging, yet moments passed and he...just... _didn’t_.

“You’ll try,” conceded Steve, using a tentacle to set the sketch pad on the table, leaning back against the wall, and settling his hands atop the tentacles bunched before him.

“Don’t you understand, _pidoras_?” Bucky said contemptuously. “You are my _mission_. I _will_ succeed. If you won’t fight back...”

“Then what?”

“Then I’ll _kill_ _you_!” Bucky spluttered. His anger made his words fast, loud. He gestured widely to emphasize the words, but _still_ didn’t attack.

“Then why haven’t you?” Steve asked, sighing. He spread his arms wide, exposed his torso. Whispers of pain trailed through him as his existing wounds stretched. A scab broke open and a rivulet of blood leaked down the channel his muscles made down the center of his chest.

“I...I _will_!”

_Is that a trace of fear? What triggered him to switch from fury to concern?_

“Be my guest...”

_Bucky never did have as good a poker face as he thought he did._

With a roar, Bucky leapt to his feet, crossed the room in two strides, wrapped his metal hand around Steve’s neck and lifted him as if he weighed nothing. Steve’s heart thrummed fear, instinct demanding that he fight back, but he did nothing, instead meeting Bucky’s gaze impassively. Every inadequate breath wheezed as Steve strained to get enough air despite Bucky’s forceful grip. Bucky’s teeth were bared in a furious rictus, but Steve saw terror in the play of light in his eyes.

_I’m calling foul on that one, Steve. I don’t care how much of a damn romantic you are, his eyes are just fricken eyes._

_Rogers, you don’t know shit about people – look at him – his eyes are tight, they’re rimmed in red and tears, they’re so_ open _– he’s afraid, deeply, profoundly afraid._

_Of me?_

_Of Hydra?_

_Of himself?_

_I suspect...option D: all of the above._

Despite Bucky’s apparent steadiness, the metal hand enclosing Steve’s neck shook. Deliberately, Bucky raised his other hand, balled it into a fist, drew back.

 _Oh, great, he’s going to break my nose_ again _._

_If this scars, maybe Carlos can give me another tattoo...right across the nose...if I’m going to be a freak might as well go whole hog..._

Steve’s arms hung at his sides. He tried to keep his tentacles limp and unthreatening, but nerves made them twitch, the ends curling. Carefully, Steve shifted his back limbs, attached some to the walls, got others under him, enough to support his weight and take most of the pressure off Bucky’s handhold, little enough that hopefully Bucky wouldn’t notice the change.

“You’re scared,” Bucky said. Emotions thickened his voice, too muddled for Steve to guess what feelings were behind the words.

“Am I?”

Steve wasn’t scared.

The worst that happened was that Bucky killed him. All things considered...that wasn’t that bad.

_The worst thing that can happen is Bucky captures me and returns me to Hydra._

_But I can’t believe he’d do that to me. He also knows that being under Hydra’s power is a fate worse than death._

Bucky’s eyebrow twitched, expression growing more fear-pinched. “No one _wants_ to die. I _will_ kill you! You _must_ be afraid!”

_He gets angry because he doesn’t understand me._

“ _You_ want to die,” Steve pointed out. The longer they spoke, the more serene he felt, conviction growing that he’d read the situation correctly.

“I…I don’t…” Bucky’s denial was pitiful.

Steve waited patiently for Bucky to continue. His windpipe ached, his lungs strained, and a quiet, frantic voice urged him to fight Bucky off because _damn it I need air, I’ve got to get enough air, and—_

 _Shut_ up _,_ _Steve. No, I_ don’t _need enough air. If I suffocate I’ll revive, God knows Hydra proved that over and over and over, so calm down and wait._

Bucky’s gaze dropped and went out of focus; he appeared to stare through Steve’s chest. “But…but you _could_ kill me,” Bucky whispered.

“I could,” Steve agreed. “But I won’t.”

“W—?” Bucky swallowed the question, flashed a terrified glance up and back down, and Steve’s stomach sank.

_He’s frightened to ask questions._

_Good God, Buck, what’d they_ do _to you?_

Steve had experienced enough to posit an educated guess, and rage boiled through him.

_I would have destroyed Hydra anyway, for the good of everyone, but for what they did to you? I will annihilate them. They meant for me to become the embodiment of their logo, to become a mascot of evil. I will use this body they gave me to become a monster out of their worst nightmares. I will not rest until every last adherent has been ripped from their deepest, dankest hidey-holes._

_And don’t you_ dare _tell me I’m being petty and vengeful, Rogers. Look what they did to Bucky. Look at him!_

Steve didn’t feel the least quaver of doubt, the least hesitation; not a single objection bubbled up from the fractured morass of his subconscious. For once, Steve’s desires, his pettiness, his sense of duty, his immaturity, his ethics, _every_ aspect of him was on the same page.

The people who’d turned Bucky into the Winter Soldier would get the mercy of a quick, painless death at Steve’s hands…or tentacles.

_Or maybe not so quick, and a little painful._

_Steve…_

“I don’t understand,” said Bucky, shaking his head. Oily locks of unwashed hair swayed over his eyes, but he didn’t shift to brush them away, didn’t lift his gaze. Metal fingers dug into Steve’s jugular, and Bucky’s other fist remained poised, shaking, to deliver a devastating blow to Steve’s face. “I _don’t understand you_. Wh—? W—?” Bucky broke off and shook his head violently. “No! I know you – I _know_ what you’re trying to do! It won’t work! I’ll…I’ll…” Horror and dread slackened Bucky’s countenance.

_Ya know, Steve, I think you’re onto something. Let’s go with slow and agonizing, especially for Herr Reinhardt. He has it coming hundreds, maybe thousands, of times over._

“Ask me your question, and if I know the answer, I’ll tell you,” said Steve gently.

“That’s… _not_ …how this works!” Bucky gritted out. “You _know_ that!”

“I don’t.”

“Yes, you _do_ ,” Bucky shouted, anger and helplessness and distress overlaid in his voice. “You’re part of this. I know you…I _know_ …!”

“Who am I?” demanded Steve.

Stricken, Bucky’s head jerked up. A tear fell from his eye, light shimmering off the moisture making his irises seem bottomless. Another tear fell, another, another. Bucky’s hands shook, his grip on Steve’s throat steady despite the quavering of his metal arm.

“I…don’t… _remember_ …”

“What _do_ you remember?” Steve pushed, hoping like hell it was the right thing to say. One wrong step and that hand would tear through his skin, rip out his throat. Bleeding out through his carotid artery would be a brand new and utterly unpleasant way for Steve to be rendered unconscious. And if Steve couldn’t knock Bucky out before blacking out, Bucky might flee back to Hydra, might take Steve with him.

_Fight it, Bucky. I know it’s hard – I know you, I know how hard you must have struggled up to now, know how extensively Hydra must have destroyed your mind for you to go against your nature like this – but damn it, you have to keep fighting..._

“I don’t…” Bucky panted loudly, chest heaving, liquid gaze looking up to Steve’s face, back down to his chest, shoulders rolled just enough forward to give his stance a deferential air. As if stealing himself to behold something terrible, Bucky tensed, lifted his head, a stricken expression on his gorgeous face. “I went to see you. At your base. Why…no! It doesn’t…you _don’t_ mat…”

_Almost like he’s talking to himself, arguing with himself._

_Well, I have no idea what_ that’s _like…_

The more disoriented Bucky became, the more distressed he behaved, the harder patience was to come by and the more essential Steve believed patience to be. Steve wasn’t an expert on psychology, but he was an expert on _Bucky_.

Bucky was fighting his conditioning.

Bucky needed _time_.

_Wait for him...let him get there on his own..._

Steve swallowed, his Adam’s apple pressing against Bucky’s metal palm.

“You said your name was Steve Rogers,” whispered Bucky.

“It is,” Steve said.

“I’m Subject 03412…you’re Subject…05641…Steve Rogers…you said you knew me…” Looking into Bucky’s eyes was heart-wrenching.

“I did.” _He’s in there. I can see him_. “I do.”

“Who…?” Bucky darted a terrified glance at Steve’s face, licked his lips, and tensed his thumb against Steve’s windpipe. Bucky’s shaking intensified, his shoulders hunched far enough that his grip weakened; if he launched the threatened punch now there’d be no power behind it. A tear splashed onto Steve’s aching tentacles, salt water like balm, like ambrosia to his tortured flesh. “Who am I?” Bucky bunched up, made himself small, defensive, awaiting a blow.

 _I. Will_. _End. Them._

“You are James Buchanan Barnes.” Steve kept his voice neutral. He didn’t dare let a trace of his anger out for Bucky to hear, lest Bucky mistakenly think even an iota of that rage was directed at him instead of at Hydra. “You were born on March 10th, 1917, in Brooklyn, New York, and you’re the best friend a guy could ever wish for.”

“No – no, that’s not me, that’s impossible.” Bucky’s face flushed, eyes sunken and red, but tears continued to fall. “You’re _lying_! You’re part of…part of…part of _all_ of this! I know – I remember – Subject 03412 – just another one of them. You’re _dead_ , I _saw_ you die – I _killed_ you!”

_What if that’s true? What if Hydra had Bucky help torture me?_

_Even if it’s true it’s irrelevant. I literally cannot_ possibly _hate them more than I already do._

_Be careful, Rogers, if they hear that kind of talk they might take it as a challenge._

“Is that really what you think happened? Do you really think I’m part of Hydra?” said Steve.

“You _must_ be one of them!” There was an edge of defensiveness in Bucky’s voice, almost petulant. “You’re the kraken – the symbol, _their_ symbol! They told me…told me about you, told me I had to…”

“They’ve hurt you,” Steve said calmly. “They’ve subverted you, made you doubt yourself, tried to destroy you, to scare you, to break you. But have they ever done something like this to you?”

Bucky’s expression shuttered, eyes going hard and distant.

_…wrong thing to say, Rogers!_

Steve gagged as the grip on his throat went taut, Bucky’s shoulders eased, and he stretched his fingers and balled them into a fist.

_Well, it was a good effort. A-plus. If I’m really lucky, maybe he’ll even remember some of it whenever we next talk._

_In the meantime, guess I’m gonna get a graphic reminder of how damn hard the three-time welterweight champ can punch._

Bucky’s arm surged forward, so quickly Steve couldn’t track it. Flesh fist slammed into concrete wall and stone gave way before bone did. With a roar of impotent fury, Bucky let go of Steve’s neck. If he’d not had tentacles latched onto the wall to support him, Steve would have collapsed. Throat aching, Steve counted off to keep his breaths even, to keep from panting in relief, and tried to ignore how each exhale whistled through his compressed windpipe.

“Why aren’t you afraid of me?” Bucky whispered. His hand rested against the wall, and he lifted the other in a mirror gesture, bracketing Steve’s head on both sides. Head slumped, shoulders slumped, Bucky looked small, defeated, and Steve longed to hold him, warm him, comfort and reassure him. 

_Someday again, maybe, but not now…_

“I know you, Bucky,” said Steve. Bucky’s head jerked up, mouth forming a word that looked suspiciously like _Bucky_ to Steve’s untrained eye. “I’ve known you for fifteen years.”

_You were everything, and God, I hope..._

“I don’t _remember_.” Bucky sounded frustrated, desperate, angry, disconsolate.

“That’s okay.” Steve smiled gently. Bucky’s eyes widened again, incredulity painting his features. “You don’t have to remember.”

“I…I don’t…?” Biting his lip, Bucky looked away, shook his head, nodded, played out an argument in his head, complete with shifting expressions reflecting whatever the two sides were. “I…I don’t.” Bucky licked his lips and managed to look up at Steve through his eyelashes, managed to look deferential though they were the same height – or had been, when Steve had legs. “Because you say it’s alright if I don’t?”

“No,” said Steve. “I’m _not_ Hydra. I won’t give you orders. You’re your own man, whether you think of yourself as James Buchanan Barnes, or as Bucky, or as Subject 03412. I won’t tell you what to do. But I will tell you: whatever you’re capable of, whatever you do or don’t remember, is okay. However you feel, whatever you feel comfortable sharing or asking, whatever you’d rather keep to yourself, I won’t force you to talk and I won’t judge or condemn you for your choices. I know what Reinhardt is like. I know what was done to me – what I remember, and what was in the file you brought me – and I swear to you, guarantee, vow on my mother’s grave: I’m with you, Buck, ‘til the end of the line.”

Bucky stared at him, stared through him, hands still pressed to the wall, tears flowing freely.

A minute passed.

Steve counted a second minute, a third. Bucky’s expression scarce flickered. Steve would have given the damn Brooklyn Bridge to know what Bucky was thinking.

_But I won’t push, just as I said I wouldn’t. His choice._

Finally, Bucky swallowed, straightened, brushed the hair from his face, wiped the tears from his cheek, and turned away.

“I’m scared, Herr Rogers,” Bucky confessed.

Steve shivered at the German honorific, but didn’t dare correct or contradict Bucky. _At least he didn’t call me Subject 05641_.

“That’s okay, too. You’re allowed to be scared. You’re allowed to be weak. You’re allowed to not know what to do, to be unsure what’s right and what’s wrong. You have time. I’ll fight for you to have all the time you need.”

“My name…my name is James Buchanan Barnes?” Bucky spoke the name as if it was alien to him, as if his tongue had never conceived of the language in which those were words.

“You are,” Steve said, “but you don’t have to take my word for it. Stick with me, and I’ll prove it to you. As many times as it takes, day after day, I’ll prove to you that I’m telling the truth, and that this isn’t a trap, and that I won’t hurt you.”

_That’s what I would want to hear if I were in your position._

_That’s what I want to hear anyway, what I wish someone would say to me. Because sometimes, I’m still not sure._

_I might yet wake up on a Hydra operating table._

_And I doubt I’ll ever be sure again that I won’t._

“I don’t believe you,” Bucky whispered.

Steve felt a flicker of disappointed, and was surprised only at the discovery that he wasn’t surprised.

“You don’t have to,” Steve allowed.

“I’m going to kill you,” said Bucky half-heartedly. “You’re my mission.”

“I won’t stop you.”

“I know you won’t.”

“Then why haven’t you killed me yet?”

“I don’t know,” said Bucky, shooting Steve a helpless glance over his shoulder. “ _I don’t know_!”

Steve managed a wry smile and made a gesture that encompassed the close quarters of the bunker. “Well, when you figure it out, you know where to find me.”

Bucky blinked, and his lips twisted into a scowl – no, twisted _up_ , twisted into a shy half-smile, and there, _there_ was James Buchanan Barnes. Hope flared hot through Steve; for the first time, he felt a glimmer of optimism that Bucky, _his_ Bucky, wasn’t beyond salvation.

_God, I want to kiss him._

_What would he say if I told him that?_

_Don’t get your knickers in a knot, Rogers, I’m not going to bring it up..._

“I’ll keep that in mind,” said Bucky, voice laced with uncertainty, shoulder tense, but that smirk stayed firmly in place.

Steve smiled encouragingly. Reaching toward the table, he suctioned his sketch pad back into his lap, plopped back to the floor, picked up his rock, and turned to a blank page. Glancing up, he found Bucky yet staring at him over his shoulder.

“What…what are you doing?” Bucky asked.

“I thought I’d draw your apartment next,” said Steve, eying the text on the page consideringly. “Wanna see?”

Bucky pivoted on a heel, strode to Steve’s side, and dropped to the floor beside him.

“Yes.”

God, Steve had forgotten how glorious hope felt.

_I should expect two steps forward, one step back. I should prepare myself for the possibility that his memory never returns. I should accept that he’s likely to continue to try to kill me. I should keep in mind that he is a trained agent and this could all be a ploy to get me to let my guard down so he can return to Hydra._

_There are_ so many _ways this could still go wrong._

 _For once in your hidebound excuse for a life, will you_ please _shut up, Rogers, and let me enjoy the moment?_

Steve smiled more widely at Bucky.

Bucky tentatively smiled back.

“This isn’t the apartment you grew up in,” Steve explained as his hand moved over the paper, drawing the lines of the walls, the barest outline of the furniture, putting in faint guides to manage the perspective. “You hated living there. Once you hit 18, you got a place of your own – big enough for your sisters, too – and you lived there ‘til you enlisted.”

“I don’t remember.”

“That’s okay,” Steve repeated. “I’ll tell you – or I’ll stop, if you want me to.”

“No!” said Bucky emphatically. Steve’s hand froze, and he turned to see Bucky staring avidly at the sketch. “Don’t stop.” Reaching out, Bucky wrapped his metal hand around Steve’s flesh one. Memory flashed, of Bucky grabbing him on the deck of the _Graf Zeppelin_ , crushing bones, breaking fingers, but Bucky didn’t squeeze; he nudged, gently, for Steve to draw the next line.

_How did he know there was a picture on that wall?_

_He’s still Bucky. His memories are still in his head, he just needs time to heal._

_I know what that’s like._

“Please don’t stop?” Bucky repeated plaintively.

“I won’t, Bucky,” Steve promised. “As long as you want me to keep going, I will. ‘Til the end of the line.”

“ ‘Til the end of the line,” echoed Bucky in a murmur. “What…uh…what room’s this?”

“Living room,” Steve explained. “We used to sit in these two chairs, and…”

Steve drew and talked, and Bucky sat and watched and listened assiduously.

Hope felt _amazing_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, GUYS, after reading this chapter cobaltmoony did art based on it! This is NOT the image that inspired this fic, that'll come later, but still!! ART!! EEEEEE
> 
> Go forth and tell her how much you love it!! Her tumblr is [cobaltmoonysart](https://cobaltmoonysart.tumblr.com/)!!
> 
> And for the rest...
> 
> As of right now I am one chapter from finishing the 1st draft, which will have 24 chapters, and I expect to finish the writing and the editing on time (July 4th). Phew. Thanks for bearing with me guys, sorry I've been a little wishy-washy on the schedule, I just really wasn't sure I could pull it off (I've written more than 40,000 words in the last 8 days to get the story to this point...I'm guessing the last chapter will be around 7500 words, which'll put the first draft at about 155,000 words, and the final draft will probably be closer to 160k since my stories always get longer when I edit.)
> 
> So. This is chapter 16, chapter 17 will post on Monday, and unless I've massively miscalculated something (...wouldn't be the first time, I thought this story was going to be 100k, sigh...) all the remaining chapters will go up on the 4th.
> 
> Next chapter posts on Monday, July 3rd.


	17. Chapter 17

Steve couldn’t sleep.

Lying on his back, staring up through the skylight, he watched the stars slowly, slowly circle overhead. Moment to moment they appeared still, immutable, but over the course of hours Steve watched a microcosm of the universe rotate by, the sky so clear that he could swear that the stars appeared different colors, some white, some red, some cool blue like Bucky’s eyes. At one point a hazy pinkish cloud crested the false horizon made by the small window and drifted lazily by. Steve would have thought it a cloud in truth, reflecting the light of dawn, save that no cloud was ever so tiny nor so clearly embedded in the heavens, and dawn was a lifetime away.

_Stars don’t have colors. The heavens aren’t home to clouds. No angels smile down from on high…_

_Pink elephants on parade…_

Bucky was asleep.

Maybe angels _were_ smiling down, because Bucky finding rest was a miracle. In the days since they’d arrived in the bunker, Bucky seemed incapable of relaxing, incapable of letting his guard down, and he had only achieved a facsimile of sleep when Steve knocked him unconscious.

The past day had finally seen an improvement. Bucky had watched Steve draw for hours, pensive, troubled, and silent. When twilight settled over the tundra, Bucky had offered his body as a second heat source to help defrost bear meat for their meal and melt ice for them to drink. They shared a peaceful meal. Bucky scarce looked at him, hands shaking continually, but he didn’t lash out. When darkness fell, Bucky lay on the ground near Steve, watching Steve watch him until night swallowed the furrows of his brow, the speculative twinkle in his eyes, and the features that Steve longed to touch. The stars didn’t cast enough light for Steve to make out even the contours of Bucky’s body, but the soft susurration of steady inhales and exhales spoke to Bucky resting serenely and deeply.

_When was the last time he was able to sleep without fear that he’d awaken in a Hydra torture chamber?_

_Does his sleeping now mean he trusts me, that he believes me when I say I’m not part of their conspiracy and am not one of their agents? Or had he simply passed beyond the pale of exhaustion after days of unconsciousness interspersed with frenetic bursts of hyperactivity?_

_At least he’s resting._

_I wish I could do the same._

_I wonder what tomorrow will bring._

Steve wanted to trust Bucky’s progress but he didn’t dare hope that Bucky would awaken as tranquilly as he’d gone to sleep. Steve needed to be prepared, mentally and physically, for Bucky to revert to full Winter Soldier at any moment. Tension kept Steve’s muscles bunched, kept his tentacles writhing restlessly, kept his eyes open, kept his wounds aching. Under the harsh conditions, whether due to exposure or stress or lack of rest, Steve wasn’t healing as quickly as he usually did. The bullet wounds in his chest were still angry and red, and several times daily sharp movements tore them open, new-grown skin dissolving under stress, blood trickling down his stomach. The knife wound to his belly was scabbed over but burned continually and leaked puss. Frostbite and dryness made his tentacles ache, the skin cracking and knitting as he moved. Only a thin stub of a tentacle wiggled uselessly, scarce regrown where the previous one had shattered from cold. A tentative exploration of his nose with a stiff finger suggested it had healed but he still wheezed when he breathed.

At least Steve’s hand had healed.

Flexing his fingers, he lifted his two arms overhead, his hands black voids against the navy blue sea of stars. Webbing made a thin membrane between each finger, no part of his body left unaffected by what Hydra had done.

_When I someday have the opportunity to look in a mirror again, will I recognize myself? If Bucky were to regain his memories, would he look at me and see Steve? Are my eyes still blue? Is my skin still tanned?_

_At least my hair is still brown. But definitely well past regulation length. Colonel Philips would write me up._

_And Christ, I haven’t shaved in months! I didn’t even realize until now._

_More unexpected side effects: no facial hair. Or chest hair, or arm hair, and obviously no tentacle hair. And I never had back hair, thank God for small blessings._

_But there’s_ something _on my back. Lying flat is kind of uncomfortable._

Steve lifted a tentacle alongside his hands. His suction cups gathered what little light there was and glowed phosphorescent. If he squinted, if he let those pink elephants parade to their hearts content, he thought he could see the capillaries fluorescing like the filament of a lightbulb.

_Who needs plankton? At the rate I’m changing I’ll glow in the dark before all is said and done._

With a sigh, Steve dropped his hands and tentacle back to the ground, the soft slap of skin on skin preternaturally loud in the silent night.

_Instead of Captain America, they can call me lightning bug. Guess I’ll have to scratch “incredibly stealthy” off the list of perks of my new body._

Fabric rustled and something metal made a faint _ting_ as it dragged over the concrete floor.

Nerves bunched Steve’s muscles and he bit his lip against a whimper of pain.

 _Have to…have to trust him…letting him hurt me_ is _getting through, so even if he_ is _awake and not merely shifting in his sleep, I have to—_

Touch skimmed over Steve’s side.

Steve twitched and his scabs cracked anew. Despite his resolution to take whatever Bucky dished out, he was so _tired_ of being in pain, so _sick_ of fighting through agony. It was hard to martyr himself and sanguinely await whatever Bucky had in store for him.

_I have to stop assuming the worst…_

_He has an established pattern of_ trying to kill me _. It’s not ‘assuming the worst’ if the available evidence suggests that Bucky hurting me is the status quo. It’d be unwarranted optimism to think he_ won’t _hurt me for a change._

 _Even if Bucky recovers from what Hydra did to him, will_ I _ever recover from what he’s done to me?_

The hand brushed over Steve’s abs.

_What’s coming? What ploy is this? What’s he going to do to me now? I have to be ready for the pain, have to be ready to fight him off. I have to—_

“Bucky?” Steve breathed.

Warmth sidled closer to Steve’s side, sultry air moistened his shoulder, and Bucky mumbled something incomprehensible into Steve’s skin.

Steve’s tension ratcheted up.

Seconds seemed to dilate to hours.

No attack came.

Bucky sighed and slumped against Steve’s side.

“Bucky?” repeated Steve.

_Don’t break the spell, don’t wake him up, this is…this is—_

“Steve,” whispered Bucky.

_…this is fine._

Tentatively, Steve slid his arm free from where Bucky had pinned it against his body. Bucky shimmied closer, head resting on Steve’s bicep, and Steve slipped the arm around Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky murmured something indistinct; it sounded tender, kind, human – it sounded like _Bucky_.

_…this is perfect._

_This is what I want._

_Getting through to Bucky is a process, retrieving the man from the monster that Hydra tried to make him isn’t going to be easy, and progress one day doesn’t mean he won’t regress every day for the next week._

_…two steps forward, one step back…_

_…but this is one hell of a step forward, and I never thought…I didn’t dare dream, didn’t dare hope…_

_…this feels so good._

“I love you, Buck,” Steve mouthed, scarce daring to vocalize, as he ran his hand down the curve of Bucky’s back. Bucky’s lips moved against Steve’s breast, but the words blurred to nonsense.

_It’s okay. This is enough._

Steve’s eyes slipped shut, and for the first time since he’d left the Crew’s home base, he fell into an easy, comfortable sleep.

* * *

_Steve’s last tentacle came off with the sickening wet sound of tearing flesh. Steve couldn’t stand up, couldn’t flee, couldn’t move, his arms were broken and his fingers were gone and his legs and his tentacles and God he was screwed and Bucky stood over him leering sadistically and a familiar voice in the background praised Bucky in German, “Good, excellent, the experiment is complete – welcome back, Subject 05641, I knew that Subject 03412 was up to the task of retrieving you” and—_

With a terrified cry, Steve jolted awake, jolted upright, a hand slapping to his frantically beating heart.

_A hand – yes, I still have hands, thank God, and my heart hurts, but it’s a familiar hurt, a known hurt, it’s okay, I’m okay, I’m—_

Steve blinked, took a calming breath, and opened his eyes. Bright sunlight warmed the room and Bucky…

Bucky squatted in a defensive stance, feet away, something sharpened and metal twinkling in his hand.

_Oh no, not again…_

“It’s okay, Buck,” said Steve soothingly. Every movement Steve took was slow and deliberate as he settled his tentacles into a more comfortable position and raised his hands to demonstrate that he didn’t intend to attack.

“It’s _not_ ,” Bucky snapped, scrambling backward until his back hit the wall.

Steve’s stomach sank.

_Two steps forward, one step back._

_It’s okay. I expected this._

_Bright side: he’s still conscious, he’s still talking, and he hasn’t tried to kill me yet…_

“I’m sorry I startled you.” Steve managed a semblance of calm, his heart still pounding with fear, aggravating his injuries yet again.

 _What if that wasn’t the dream? What if_ this _is the dream?_

_If you don’t have anything helpful to say, Steve, don’t say anything at all._

“Stop _apologizing_ ,” snarled Bucky.

“But it’s really…” Steve blinked. “What?”

“It’s _not_ alright,” Bucky continued. He tossed aside his improvised weapon with a clatter, stood, crossed to the cabinet, and aggressively tugged the doors open. As Steve watched with increasing astonishment, Bucky retrieved the first aid box, stomped to Steve’s side, dropped to his knees, and slammed the kit open so forcefully that the lid cracked against the floor.

“What are you doing?” asked Steve.

“What you won’t do,” Bucky growled. “Treat your injuries seriously. Lie down.”

“But—”

“Lie _down_ , Herr Rogers!”

A tingle ran down Steve’s back as he hastily complied. He never could resist when Bucky got forceful with him. Stretching out flat tugged the skin around his wounds, aggravated the mystery something on his back, but he ignored his discomfort. He stretched his arms over his head, stretched his tentacles down. The room was small enough that fingertips and tentacle tips brushed opposite walls.

Bucky took a torn strip of blanket, dumped solid iodine onto it, and slapped the cloth over Steve’s belly wound. Agony dissolved the world into pinpricks of light and tingling and Steve groaned, instinctively trying to writhe away.

“Hold still,” Bucky reprimanded.

_What…no…stop hurting me, please stop…_

Steve whimpered and curled away.

_They’ve got me again. I was right all along, I never did escape their torture. Which of their formulations is this? It feels like D-102 but who am I fooling they were all the same and they all hurt, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it hurts, it—_

Hands gripped his shoulders, legs straddled his hips, and weight pinned Steve to the ground. Frightened, Steve struggled, tentacles lashing out – _have to fight them off, have to escape, I can move, it’s not hopeless_. Something sharp tingled over his face and he abruptly came back to himself whispering “stop, stop, stop.” His vision cleared to show Bucky held in the air by his tentacles, the hand that had slapped his cheek hovering inches from his face.

Pain beat at Steve’s awareness.

Bucky glared down at him.

“Your stomach wound is infected,” said Bucky flatly. “If you can’t handle this pain now, you’ll suffer until the wound putrefies and you die.”

_Yeah, Steve, quit being such a baby about this._

_What, you two ganging up on me now?_

Huffing out a sigh, Steve slumped back down, set Bucky on the floor, and let his eyes close.

“We’ve got to work on your bedside manner,” muttered Steve. “At least warn a guy next time.”

_Of course his bedside manner sucks. Everything he knows he learned from Hydra. Wanna bet they don’t check with Bucky before they treat his injuries? Wanna bet they don’t bother with sedation? Wanna bet that if he screams and writhes, they pin him down and force the treatment on him and then tell him it’s for his own good and he should quit bitching or else they’ll cut his tongue out?_

_I should be_ grateful _that he warned me first. At least he explained what he was doing after the fact._

_I’m positive Reinhardt and his so-called scientists never did Bucky that courtesy._

Ignoring Steve, Bucky messed with the first aid kit, things within clattering and rustling. Forcing his eyes open, Steve looked down at his wound. The iodine dissolved to liquid against his skin, orange stain spreading out, and as pain pelted him, Steve reminded himself that every prick, every ache, was the iodine working, killing the bacteria that caused the wound to suppurate.

“Thank you—”

“I’m sor—”

They spoke simultaneously, gazes meeting, and broke off simultaneously as well.

“You first,” said Steve.

“Why did you start to _thank_ me?” Bucky demanded.

“Because you’re offering me first aid,” Steve replied patiently. “I know you’re scared and suspicious. You’ve no cause to trust me. We’ve just started to forge a relationship, and yet you’re willing to risk extending me your trust and trying to help me. I wanted you to know that I acknowledge the danger to which you are exposing yourself to and that I understand that this is difficult for you. I appreciate your efforts on my behalf.”

The longer Steve spoke, the more violently Bucky shook his head, even as his fingers mechanically threaded a needle.

“You’re—” Bucky snapped his mouth shut.

“It’s fine – you can say what you think, I won’t get angry.”

“You disgust me,” Bucky spat. He twisted the thread around his finger to knot the end, leaned forward, and removed the cloth from Steve’s stomach. It came away gooey, threads of iodine mixed with pus attenuating until they rebounded to disgusting beads, and Steve gritted his teeth and clenched his fists in an effort to keep still.

“Why?” he managed to growl. Bucky started, eyes narrowing as he stared Steve down. “I’m not angry. I won’t punish you for answering, not now, not ever, even if I don’t like your reply. I’m not _mad_ at you, Bucky.”

“Stop calling me that.” Bucky bit each word off. He plunged the needle into a loose flap of Steve’s flesh. Pain forced tears from Steve’s eyes, that one pinprick, infinitesimal compared to all he’d suffered, somehow agonizing.

“What would you prefer I call you?” asked Steve. At least their strained conversation served as a distraction.

“Subject 03412,” Bucky replied.

“No,” said Steve.

“You said you’d honor my wishes,” Bucky countered.

_That’s true, I did, but…but not that. I’m sorry Buck._

“I’ll not call you by the number Hydra uses to dehumanize you,” Steve explained. The needle tore through his skin, the thread tugged and pulled and caught on ragged flesh, and Bucky knit closed the wound that wouldn’t knit on its own. “I’ll call you by your name, or by any other name you choose, or I can continue to call you the Winter Soldier, as I’ve done since we first met. But I’ll not let you call me 05641, and I’ll not let you claim their disease as your identity.”

“What if I _want_ that to be my identity?” asked Bucky. The anger had faded from his voice, replaced by consideration and curiosity.

“Then I’m sorry.”

“I’m not Bucky,” said Bucky. “I don’t know who that is. I don’t remember. You’re lying.”

“I appreciate that you have to consider the possibility that I might be,” acknowledged Steve.

Bucky scowled. “And talk plain!”

_You might think you’re not Bucky but when you say things like that you sound so much like you used to – so much like him._

Steve couldn’t help but smile. “I’ll try.”

Moments passed in silence, a gust of wind howling outside, the needle making a faint _pfft, pfft, twang_ as Bucky punctured him and pulled the thread taut, punctured him and pulled the thread taut.

“Call me Winter Soldier, if you must call me anything,” Bucky said at length.

“Are you comfortable with using that as your name?” Steve asked.

“I don’t know,” said Bucky. “But if you call me it, I’ll find out.”

“Alright, Winter Soldier,” said Steve. Though _Winter Soldier_ had been coined as the appellation of an anonymous, unknown combatant, it felt right as it slipped from Steve’s tongue, fit the discordance that Steve continually observed in his old friend.

Stitch by meticulous stitch, the Winter Soldier sealed Steve’s wound. The room was quiet save for the wet sound of Steve’s flesh being pierced and the thwap and twang of the thread going slack and taut. Steve lay back, unable to continue to watch, and tried to think of anything to say, anything to keep conversation going, anything to focus on other than how much being sewn together hurt.

 _Didn’t hurt nearly this bad when Hydra sewed on my tentacles. At least the sedatives worked right_ that _time. If I’d come to my senses just to feel_ this _…_

Steve shuddered.

 _A topic, Steve, anything, you’re the extrovert of the two of us – I mean, Bucky is the extrovert, was the extrovert, but the Winter Soldier hasn’t exactly been a great conversationalist – come on, Steve, think – there’s gotta be_ something _to say…_

_…we always had so much to talk about before…_

_…but that was Bucky, and this is the Winter Soldier._

“Why were you going to apologize to me?” asked Steve.

The Winter Soldier looked up, using the shears to cut the thread close to Steve’s bloody skin. “I hurt you. Repeatedly. You don’t…I mean…I don’t _think_ you deserve that.”

“But you’re not sure?”

Wiping the bloody needle off on the iodine-soaked cloth, the Soldier turned his attention back to the kit, pulling out the spool of thread and measuring another length.

_Great. There’s more._

_Well, yeah, there’s the small matter of these five bullet wounds…_

“I’m not sure of anything,” the Winter Soldier admitted, a wry note in his voice. “Despite my behavior toward you, you’ve…you’ve helped me. First aid. Water. Food. You didn’t kill me when you could have. You’ve shown me mercy. I don’t…” The Soldier snapped the thread and held it before him, ends trailing in the faint breeze of his breath. “I don’t remember who I was, but I know what I’ve done. I don’t deserve mercy. If I kill you I’ll never find out why you think I do.”

The moment hung on a breathless precipice. Steve’s thoughts raced through possible replies, and he examined and assessed each as quickly as he could, before finally settling on, “And if you bring me back with you to Hydra?”

There was an extended pause. Steve kept his eyes glued to the Winter Soldier’s face, ready to catch the slightest change in his expression, but the Soldier didn’t react. Instead, he focused on his task, knotted the new length of string, and turned to Steve.

“Roll onto your stomach,” he ordered. Steve quirked an eyebrow questioningly. “You aggravated the exit wounds on your back by sleeping on the floor.”

“That’d explain why they hurt so much.” Steve managed a half-smile, but that produced no reaction either.

_Two steps forward, one step back._

_Patience..._

Steve rolled onto his back, propped his head on his arms, and tried to breathe normally.

_If he were going to attack me with a chance of success, now would be the moment..._

Prepared for the worst, Steve kept his tentacles poised.

Iodine rubbed against his flesh, pain exploding outward, and Steve hissed, chest heaving. With his weight on his front, his belly was agony. All worry of attack, all thought of shame, evaporated. Steve pressed his eyes against one of his arms in a vain attempt to quell his tears, caught the other arm in his mouth, teeth digging into his flesh in a futile effort to restrain his sobs.

Warm fingers cupped Steve’s shoulder gently, the only sign that it was the Soldier’s metal arm rather than his flesh one the inhuman hardness of the metal.

“I would never do that,” the Soldier murmured.

Heaving, gasping, crying, Steve managed a broken “what?” in reply.

“I wouldn’t...”

The Winter Soldier’s hand caressed Steve’s neck, rising and falling over the plains and divots of Steve’s tendons and muscles. A chill went down Steve’s spine as he realized that the Soldier was tracing the outline of the bruises left by his attack the previous day. The touch was strangely soothing and Steve calmed as the pain dulled once more.

“I couldn’t have turned you over to them.”

Steve’s heartbeat was so loud in his ears, his breath so raspy over his throat, that he couldn’t believe he’d heard correctly.

“Didn’t...” Hoarse dryness rendered the word inarticulate. Steve swallowed his pain, his tears, his mucus, rubbed his lips over his arms, and tried again. “Didn’t your Hydra commander order you to capture me?”

“Yes,” said the Soldier. Fingers pinched Steve’s bruises, the needle stabbed through his skin, and Steve shuddered. “Herr Reinhardt...he said...those were my orders. Those are my orders. My mission is to subdue Subject 05641 and return with him to the _Graf Zeppelin_.”

“The ship can’t be two miles from here,” Steve pointed out.

“I know.”

“Do you want to go back?” asked Steve.

_Please be the right question, please be the right question, please..._

“I don’t know,” said the Soldier. There was a beat pause. _Patience, Steve..._ “Would you let me go back?”

The word _no_ sprang immediately to Steve’s lips, but with the conversation about Bucky’s name fresh in his mind, Steve bit the word into his arm and considered his answer. Good and evil, right and wrong, just and unjust, seemed so _obvious_ to Steve. It was hard to wrap his head around a different viewpoint, to imagine himself in Bucky’s position, to consider an alternative approach to dealing with Hydra, any different means of prying Bucky from their grasp.

 _Of course, if Bucky_ asked _to return to Hydra, and I let him go, that would make him complicit._

_As if anything in the world is that black and white._

_Every German foot soldier I met was just a boy, scared, alone, far from home, and terrified to die. Same for every Italian, every Frenchman, every Brit, every GI. Reinhardt is a monster, as Hitler was, as Goebbels is...was?...as Mengele, Himmler, Togo, all of them are or were._

_Schmidt was a monster. Zola is a monster._

_Bucky isn’t a monster._

_I am not a monster._

_But if Bucky – if the Winter Soldier isn’t ready or able to fight off his conditioning, would it be wrong of me to deny him permission to leave? If I seek to control him, believing my control to be in his best interest, am I any better than Hydra?_

The needle snagged Steve’s flesh, pain temporarily blanking his thoughts, and when the agony cleared there remained a single realization, front and center.

_He could have left at any time in the past week. I’d have been hard pressed to stop him. But instead he chose to stay, to continue to try to kill me..._

“It’s not up to me,” admitted Steve. “Haven’t you already made your choice?”

The needle froze, tip pressing against Steve’s skin.

The pierce and pull, steady and deliberate, resumed.

“We both know what they’ll do to you if I capture you.” It was no answer to Steve’s question, yet it was all the answer he needed. Whether the Winter Soldier – whether or not _Bucky_ was willing to admit the truth to himself, whether or not he was willing to admit it to Steve, he clearly didn’t want to return to Hydra’s thrall.

“The same thing they did to you when you failed to bring me back?” Steve asked.

“Yes,” said Bucky flatly, matter-of-factly. “You don’t deserve that fate.”

“But you do?”

“I don’t know.” Bucky spoke so softly that Steve strained to hear him, surprised that Bucky had answered at all. “I know...I _think_ I’ve done terrible things, but I don’t remember. Was any of it...” There was another long pause, and Steve didn’t dare draw breath lest the least noise from him drown out whatever Bucky was on the verge of saying. His attempt at silence proved prescient, for when Bucky spoke it was in a whisper. “Are you real?”

Two of Steve’s tentacles brushed together, dried skin rustling on dry skin.

“I don’t know,” Steve confessed. “Everything that’s happened to me...to you...everything that Hydra has done seems so impossible that I wonder sometimes if _any_ of this is real.”

There was a _twang-thwip-snap_ and the tugging at Steve’s back stopped.

“I _hate_ not being sure,” breathed Bucky.

“Me too.”

Head throbbing, Steve closed his eyes, shook his head against his arms and listened avidly, but Bucky said nothing more. In a vain attempt to distract himself from his injuries and his worries, he tried to guess what Bucky did by the sounds his actions produced: the rhythmic clatter-clatter-clatter of the spool rocking as thread was unspun, the crinkle and rustle of paper packaging being opened, an unidentifiable hiss...

Further first aid, clearly, but beyond that Steve couldn’t guess.

“Iodine on your back,” Bucky warned.

_Bucky warned me!_

Prepared, Steve managed to restrain his reaction as the next dose of antiseptic hit his depressingly septic flesh.

Weight over the wound added soothing heat to the treatment, Bucky’s hand remaining over the iodine-treated cloth, his other hand combing through the shoulder-length strands of Steve’s hair.

_Is it insane that the word that springs to mind to describe this is...nice?_

_This...this is nice._

_Man my definitions have gotten skewed the last few years._

“Thank you,” Bucky whispered.

“For what?” asked Steve.

“For giving the only answer I could possibly believe.”

_You know what else feels nice?_

_Hope_.

“You’re welcome.” There was a question on the tip of Steve’s tongue, and after a moment’s deliberation – hopefully _we’re past the point where a single misstep will ruin the progress we’ve made_ – Steve asked, “Does that mean you’ll stay?”

“For now.”

_Two steps forward, one step back._

“I’m glad.”

The cloth lifted free of Steve’s back and Bucky started sewing the next gash shut.

“That’s why you disgust me,” Bucky admitted.

“I’m sorry,” Steve said. “I don’t understand.” He tried to twist his head around to see Bucky’s expression, but Bucky’s hand held his neck to the ground, and after a moment’s struggle against that grip, Steve gave up and relaxed against the floor.

_It doesn’t matter if I ‘get it.’ He knows what he means. He’s trying to understand me. He’s trying to fight off Hydra. He’s not leaving. That’s what’s important._

“I know you don’t,” said Bucky.

“Are you able – are you willing to explain it to me?” asked Steve hesitantly.

“No.” Bucky ran his thumb down the curve of Steve’s spine, stopping short of his festering wounds. “I hope...” He took a deep breath. “I hope you _never_ understand.”

_When life is pain and loneliness and the promise of torture...when reality becomes so warped that there’s no telling right from wrong...when Bucky’s brain is so broken that he can’t remember who he is, can’t remember who I am, can scarce process the world around him well enough to interpret events..._

_...that statement, coming from him, is a blessing._

_May I never break so badly that someone else’s expression of pleasure disgusts me._

_May I never experience what he’s experienced._

_May I never again fall under Hydra’s power._

_He’d have killed me rather than turned me over to them. As a mercy._

_Whenever I think I know how incredible Bucky is, whenever I think I couldn’t love him more, he astounds me yet again._

_I don’t think I could have survived what he’s been through._

_But I’m_ positive _that he’s survived it. Bucky might be buried and hurt, might require far more healing that first aid can touch, but this man sitting with me...he may not_ realize _he’s Bucky, but he_ is _._

“Thank you,” Steve breathed.

Bucky’s thumb continued its warm ministrations to Steve’s back.

“You understand _enough_ ,” murmured Bucky.

 “I...I hope...”

Bucky cut the thread.

Steve rolled to his side, met Bucky’s eyes, and read _nothing_ on Bucky’s face.

“God, I hope I do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I finished the first draft on Saturday and have been editing like mad since then, and will ABSOLUTELY be posting the rest of the story tomorrow.
> 
> Chapters 18 through 24 post on Tuesday, July 4th! <3
> 
> As does the art which inspired this story!


	18. Chapter 18

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys! I'm up and reviewing the final sets of beta feedback (have I mentioned that cyborgtopus and trainedunprofessional are AMAZING? they have worked so damn hard to review stuff even as I worked down to the wire and I seriously cannot thank them enough) and I'll be posting chapters as they're ready. There'll probably be a slight delay before the last chapter, since I need to coordinate that with the art and stuff. :) Still, all told, I expect everything will be up within the next hour UNLESS my son wakes up, in which case there might be some delay. Thanks, everyone!

“Doctor’s orders,” said Bucky sternly.

 _I can’t believe I let him talk me into this_.

_Who am I kidding? I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again: I never could say no to Bucky._

Ice crushed to pebbles as Bucky grabbed the edge of a floe sticking up from the ocean’s crust and lifted with all his might. The soft _crack-crack-crack_ spoke to fissures opening and spreading around them, and water bubbled up between the fractured slabs. With a frustrated _tsk_ , Bucky took hold of another chunk of ice and tore it free, opening a dark hole to the depths below.

Steve eyed the water warily, eyed Bucky warily, and hesitated.

Bucky met Steve’s suspicious look with one of his own.

_Stop it, Rogers. Bucky sees me as different than his Hydra captors because I’m honest with him, because I trust him, because I don’t fear him, and because I encourage him to make choices. If I stop behaving as I have – if I give him reason to think I doubt him..._

“Fine,” Steve grumbled, but he smiled. Bucky’s eyes widened. Once upon a time, Steve’s had loved Bucky’s smiles but now his favorite of Bucky’s expressions was the shocked awe that glimmered in Bucky’s gaze and left his lips agape when Steve surprised him. “Don’t wait up for me!”

Steve dived beneath the waves.

_Home at last!_

_Did I...did I really just think that?_

_Yes. Yes, I did._

The over-extended, stretched-out feeling that had plagued Steve since his assault on the _Graf Zeppelin_ vanished upon contact with saltwater. Two powerful strokes of his tentacles drove him through the currents deep beneath the ice. Though the day had been nice, surprising warmth in the air, the chill underwater was the same as it had been all winter, comfortably constant and familiar. After so long so very, very, cold, the relative warmth of the depths was glorious. The water was murky save for swirls of glowing plankton, no light penetrating the ice and snow overhead, and the ribs of the sunken sailing ship faded in and out of focus in the distance.

_Home..._

_Once the Wrecking Crew and I finish our mission in Siberia, I may never again find a place I belong in the world of men._

Relishing the feel of water rushing along his tentacles, Steve swam to the ship, dodged and wove among the wooden beams. They made an awesome obstacle course, and after a days of feeling ungainly, weak, and inflexible, Steve settled contentedly into his element. Swimming, he was fast, responsive, and agile. Even the pain of his wounds lessened, though that was more a credit to Bucky’s first aid the day before than to any mysterious healing properties of the ocean. Steve wasn’t healed, but his injuries were much improved thanks to Bucky’s neat stitching.

_It also helps that he’s stopped trying to kill me._

_I hope he’s still at the bunker when I get back._

Sound beneath the waves echoed strangely. Water deadened the rush of currents around the ship’s submerged keel, reduced the pounding of the surf on the shore to near silence. Steve was too new to the oceanscape to recognize the other sounds around him, though there were many, whispering in his ear like someone speaking a language he didn’t understand.

_If this is home...if this becomes home...I’ll learn._

_I can adapt to this being home...but Rogers, one thought? Aruba. Tahiti. Key West. Hawaii. Tropical waters only. The Arctic need not apply._

_Agreed?_

_Agreed._

Steve didn’t have enough experience with his modified body to judge how long he should stay beneath the waves to rejuvenate himself. The pain in his limbs faded quickly, but a lack of pain didn’t mean he was _healed_. Nerves kept him from wanting to linger, despite how good it felt to be underwater once more. There was no knowing what Bucky might do left to his own devices, no guessing what doubts might leak into Bucky’s mind and prompt him to make terrible choices. Trying to push back against his fears, Steve twisted around a beam, picked up speed, and nearly collided with the next barnacle-caked beam of his make-shift obstacle course as a twinge from his stitched up belly reminded him he had more than one reason not to spend too long on leisure.

 _I’m still way less than one hundred percent. What is_ wrong _with me? I should be healed by now!_

 _So true, Rogers, so true, I certainly can’t be bothered by little pesky realities like the fact that_ any normal person would be dead _from these injuries!_ _I’m alive, and I’m healing, and I’ll be back up to snuff lickity-split – another few days at the current rate. That’s not too shabby, considering I took five bullets to the chest and got gutted._

The dull, repetitive boom of the waves washing against the rocky shore was soothing. Steve’s heartbeat matched the tempo. His limbs propelled him to the same beat, as if he’d gone for a run with a great song in his head and found his steps falling in time to the bass line.

_Well would you like—_

_Beat!_

_—to swing on a star?_

_Beat!_

_Carry moonbeams—_

_Beat!_

_—home in a jar?_

_Beat!_

_And be better off—_

_Beat!_

_—than you are?_

_Beat!_

_Wait._

_Beat!_

_Wait, wait, wait, wait, wait._

_Beat!_

_What waves?_

_Beat!_

_What rocky shore?_

_Beat!_

_The coast is iced over solid for at least a mile out to sea!_

_Beat!_

_That sounds like…_

Heart pounding with fear, Steve swam his hardest for surface, dodging amidst the floes sticking down from the surface ice.

_Beat!_

_That sounds like howitzer fire._

_Beat!_

_The_ Graf Zeppelin.

_Beat!_

_Bucky!_

_Beat!_

_What should I do? Beat! What should I do? Beat! Do I swim to the edge of the ice cover? Beat! What, then run back along the surface? Beat! With my injuries? Beat! Over the uneven ice and multiple-feet-deep snow? Beat! No. Beat! I’m wasting time. Beat! Think, Steve, think!_

_Beat!_

_It’ll ruin my knuckles_ again _but I could punch through the ice._

_Beat!_

_No, no I can’t, remember how much it hurt when I strained too hard swimming?_

_Beat!_

_Bucky’s an excellent seamstress but if I tear these wounds open again I’ll be back to square one._

_Beat!_

_Also, sharks. Aren’t sharks attracted to blood in the water?_

_Beat!_

_Hell, Steve, if I needed proof that I am still way way_ way _less than copacetic, look no further than the fact that I’m worried about Goddamn_ sharks _in the Goddamn_ Arctic _._

_Beat!_

_Hey, sharks are dangerous!_

_Beat!_

_And if one shows up I’ll—_

_Beat!_

Something slammed into Steve’s back and he gasped out a burst of air bubbles. Chunks of ice sank around him – _wait, sank? Ice floats!_ – and pelted him as he tried to right himself and get his bearings. A thread of blood diffused through the water as Steve circled and tried to figure out what the hell was going on. The ice bobbed, sunk and rose around him. Steve swam up, swam up, and his head broke through to air. He was so shocked he gasped and choked on the water that evacuated his lungs and clogged his throat and mouth.

Out of water, the concussive boom of cannon fire was unmistakable, projectiles whistling overhead. Glancing around – _bunker, there, so_ Graf Zeppelin _is—_ – Steve turned to his right. In the distance, the chaos on the deck of the aircraft carrier was obvious. Tiny shapes hurried back and forth, strangely silent in their distress. Even the warning klaxon sounded like the toy horn mounted on a kid’s bicycle.

_What are they firing at?_

_Boom!_

Twin howitzers were mounted on the bow, swinging into motion, and—

_Boom!_

—neither of the howitzers fired.

_Boom!_

_Wait, what?_

_Boom!_

An airplane parked on the deck exploded, parts flying in all directions, wing breaking free and crushing someone whose screams reached Steve’s ears faint and inhuman.

_Boom!_

_Someone is firing_ at _them!_

_Boom!_

Pulling himself onto the ice, Steve turned a three-sixty, searching the shoreline, the spit of land housing the bunker, the distant coast, and—

_Boom!_

A cannon jumped and spit a burgeoning cloud of smoke. People moved rapidly and efficiently to reload it, the empty cartridge spitting free and tumbling over the side of the frigate.

 _Carlos’_ frigate.

_Boom!_

The _clang-clang-clang_ of ice colliding with the metal sides of the ship accompanied its slow advance toward the _Graf Zeppelin_. Some shots struck the aircraft carrier’s distant decks, but most were aimed at the sheet of ice covering the ocean, shattering the blockage, clearing the way for the ship to sail forward. The silhouette seemed off to Steve’s eye, unfamiliar despite the many times he’d seen Carlos’ ship. Frowning, he tried to figure out the problem.

_Conning tower...is getting bigger? Huh?_

Carlos’ ship zipped forward through a large gap in the ice and the over-large conning tower divided into two and a second ship came into view, previously eclipsed by the frigate.

_Boom!_

The outline was unfamiliar. It must be a second pirate, some friend of Carlos’ come for…some reason.

_Boom!_

Come to sink the _Graf Zeppelin_ , surely.

_Boom!_

_Why here? Why now?_

_Boom!_

_Humble, Steve – I’ll give you one guess why they’re here._

_Boom!_

_I didn’t return to the base._

_Ba-boom!_

The twin crashes, one behind him reverberating so powerfully that the water around Steve sloshed and foamed, jerked Steve’s attention to the _Graf Zeppelin_. The Hydra soldiers had finally brought the guns to bear, and the shell arced to strike the deck of Carlos’ ship, tearing through the side of the conning tower with a resounding crash and the shriek of tearing metal.

 _And I’m just standing here watching. Great job, Steve_.

Spreading his tentacles out over the uneven snow cover, Steve sprinted toward the _Graf Zeppelin_. Steve didn’t bother with stealthy; there was no hiding his dark shape moving over the sparkling white ground. The people on the volleying ships were more worried about each other anyway, the two attacking ships tearing through the ice to draw closer to the Hydra vessel, the _Graf Zeppelin_ belatedly mounting a defense. The crash of the howitzers echoed over the desolate landscape, shots followed by the sound of ice shattering and the crunch of metal folding. The _Graf Zeppelin’s_ alarm grew more shrill the nearer Steve drew, and as he hurled himself at the hull and hauled himself up arm over arm and tentacle over tentacle he could hear the jumbled shouts of the men working on the deck. Liquid splattered the metal beneath him as Steve moved, hissing on contact with the rime coating the steel. Steve was mystified – _it’s warmer than it has been but still plenty cold enough for the water from my dip in the deep to have frozen! –_ until he realized it was blood. His blood.

_Damnation!_

_I don’t have time for this!_

Steve launched himself onto the deck.

Two shocked soldiers, bundled so thoroughly against the cold that they resembled walking wardrobes instead of men, dropped their weapons to the deck, turned and fled. Steve lashed out with two tentacles, striking each in the head, and they sprawled to the deck. Gunshots rang out around him, one striking his arm, and Steve took in the situation with a single quick glance over the deck.

The chaos he’d observed from afar looked no less disorderly up close. Men ran fore and aft in small groups, seemingly without purpose, some seeing to aircraft that couldn’t be flown in the cold, others pushing cartloads of ammunition, others aiming rifles at the still-distant frigates, one group staring at Steve as if their worst nightmare had come to life. Steve sprinted down the deck toward those hauling ammunition. He _had_ to get the guns offline. Small arms fire rang out around him as the soldiers got their bearings, recognized him as a threat, and tried to shoot him. Steve dodged amidst planes and wreckage to avoid their shots, moving as no human could, scrunching himself close to the deck or elongating himself to stand tall, running along the sides of airplanes, weaving and leaping, trying to keep his next step unpredictable. Bullets whistled around him, some nicking him, others pinging off metal or the deck, but none struck him solidly – or, if they did, he didn’t notice over the baseline of pain that he’d grown so accustomed to the past week that it scarce registered.

 _Well, that’s a comforting thought. Remember when I thought I’d_ never _get used to how much these injuries hurt?_

The men pushing the ammunition cart hadn’t noticed Steve; he barreled into them and used tentacles to slam four heads against the deck with simultaneous crunches, latched half his suction cups to the heavy cart, swung it around and hurled it over the side of the deck. Agony as if he was being torn apart shredded his senses, his wounds ripping, gaping, reopening, and he dropped to a squat on the deck, tentacles splayed about him, blood splattering beneath him as he struggled to regain his breath and blink away the screen of red dilating his vision to distant, undecipherable pinpricks.

A blow slammed into Steve’s side and he flattened against the deck with a scream. Training and instinct trumped pain, though, and even as he writhed, a hand clutched to his torn stomach, he swept his tentacles blindly through the area where his attacker _must_ be, felt the shock of contact, and was gratified to hear the grunt as whoever it was fell beside him. With a vengeful cry that helped Steve into motion despite his pain, he swung – flopped – atop his attacker, throwing blind punches that grew stronger the more Steve got his tentacles beneath him for leverage. His vision cleared to show him a soldier pinned to the deck, nose smashed, face blooming black-and-blue, eyes rolled back as if he were unconscious or dead.

Something hard and cold pressed into Steve’s back.

“Surrender, monster,” snarled a man in guttural German. “Surrender or I’ll kill you.” Steve stealthily shifted a tentacle around, moving to entangle the man’s legs, but a boot stomped the tentacle and a click spoke to the pistol being cocked. “Surrender! Sur—”

A soft _pfft_ and a sodden, disgusting sound interrupted the man. Blood and bits of bone and tufts of hair splattered to the deck before Steve’s wide eyes, followed a moment later by the man – or his corpse – falling to his knees and slumping over. The pressure left Steve’s back. Pushing himself up on shaking arms, he looked for his savior.

_One of the other Hydra soldiers, or a prisoner who broke free, or…?_

Bucky.

The Winter Soldier stood on the edge of the deck, rifle held steady at his shoulder, uniform on, mask covering his face, red star on his shoulder shining, Hydra logo bleeding over his breast.

_Why didn’t it register before? The star of the USSR combined with the Hydra kraken…two marks of ownership, two brands on the slave, indicating for his two owners…_

Eyes narrowed against the bright light, Bucky lowered his aim, gun trained toward Steve, and despite every self-admonishment to trust, Steve’s skin tingled with apprehension. The ship shook with the continued firing of the howitzer, rattled from stem to stern as a plane far down deck exploded, tolled like a bell as another shot struck the hull’s steel plating. Smoke billowed behind Bucky, made a blur of the ships drawing closer behind him, and their eyes met.

Bucky’s hand tensed on the trigger, the rifle whipped up, a shot rang out, and something _thunked_ behind Steve. Twisting as he forced himself upright, Steve watched a second Hydra soldier go down, a bullet hole directly between his eyes, the back of his skull shattered.

 _Bucky has_ fantastic _aim._

_He didn’t want to capture me._

_And he didn’t_ really _want to kill me._

 _He’s been fighting Hydra’s influence all along_ _on my behalf._

For a breathless, endless moment, they stood scant feet apart, worlds apart.

The Winter Soldier was devastating, effective, absolutely terrifying, and Steve trusted him implicitly.

_That’s folly, Steve._

_Then just call me Ziegfeld, Rogers._

The concussion of cannon fire shattered the moment. Flailing to order his tentacles beneath him, Steve took off for the ship’s bow, not sparing a glance for whether Bucky followed.

_As long as he takes care of himself…_

_If they try to take him again…_

_…however things go down, I’m getting off this ship again, and so is he._

Bolting over the deck, Steve focused on his self-appointed mission, letting the irrelevant details of combat fade to a blur in the background of his awareness. A line of soldiers arrayed before him, rifles trained his way; Steve leapt to the side of the conning tower, clung to the tower wall, easily outpaced the soldiers’ delayed attempts to track him with their fire, and dropped down in their midst, knocking six to the ground at once. The seventh and last tumbled before Steve could right himself to attack, a spray of blood from his back freckling Steve’s arm. A glance showed him the Winter Soldier already aiming elsewhere, taking deliberate, wide strides over the deck, as confident and sure-footed as though he were out for a promenade through Prospect Park.

_No…no, Bucky never looked that good back home._

_I can’t seriously be thinking that “brainwashed assassin” is a good look on him!_

_But…well, it kind of is…_

Determination marked the set of Bucky’s shoulders, the hardness of his expression, his eyes as cold and distant and still as the Siberian horizon. His movements were crisp and economical, not so much as a single extraneous flick of a finger. A tank didn’t look so determined to flatten any opponent. Bucky aimed with rapid finesse, and everywhere his rifle pointed, men fell – men _died_.

_He has changed._

_And I think he’s stunning like this._

_Clearly, I’ve changed too._

The hiss of a bullet whizzing past his ear reminded Steve of his own predicament. Wheeling, he spared a punch to the jaw of a Hydra soldiers struggling to rise beside him, knocking him out. Steve’s skin was smeared in blood, pain a constant reminder of the toll his recent exertions had taken on his body, and as he gained speed, rushing across the deck once more, his hair flapped around his ears. The repeated _booms_ of the howitzers vibrated the frozen air, rattling Steve’s teeth, as he charged the emplacement. Dodging and weaving around obstacles, bullets whistling by him, Steve pushed thoughts of Bucky, thoughts of Hydra, thoughts of his own metamorphosis from his mind.

_I have a mission. I’ll fail if I don’t focus._

Teams of six soldiers manned each gun, loading ammunition, disposing of spent cartridges, adjusting the aim, and firing, with mechanical, practiced precision. Bundled against the cold, their peripheral vision blocked by fur-lined hoods and thick goggles, they were intent on their task, trained to ignore any potential distraction. The other soldiers arrayed around the deck were supposed to protect them, and they didn’t yet realize that their support had failed.

Steve recognized the exact moment when they saw him and realized they were under assault. Someone shouted, the man aiming froze, wide eyes appearing over-large and distorted by his goggles. The two men hefting the next shell dropped it, gave Steve a terrified glance, gave the unexploded ordnance a terrified glance.

They wasted their only chance to react before Steve was among them.

Limbs flying in all directions, Steve punched one in the head, looped around another’s neck to slam his face into the howitzer barrel so hard his mask cracked, swept the feet out from under another two, pushed the ammunition cart into the last. Momentum carried the cart over the edge, plummeting to the ground below and carrying a screaming man, hands scrambling at the air, with it. The soldier Steve had grabbed collapsed when Steve removed his tentacle, a chunk of glass making a ragged, bloody mess of one of his eyes. There was a crack of gunfire and Steve wheeled to find a soldier sprawled on the ground, too terrified to aim effectively. A second man beside him fumbled for his sidearm. Movement to Steve’s right caught his eye, the soldier he’d punched attempting to reply in kind; Steve parried the blow with his arm, launched two tentacles each at the men on the ground, grabbed their heads and conked them together with a satisfying _thunk_. A quick one-two did for the soldier throwing punches, and he fell, red crystalizing around his split lip.

The guns fell silent.

The remaining soldier – the second man who’d worked the ammunition cart – looked up at Steve in consternation, knees bent defensively before him, hands beneath him propping up his chest, as he lay on the flight deck.

The last of the troops manning the other howitzer fell. Steve didn’t need to look behind himself to know Bucky was responsible.

 _He shows these men no mercy, though they were ostensibly his allies before, shows them no more mercy than he showed Dernier or his other assassination victims. Would he be this callous toward everyone? Is his shoot-to-kill approach a result of his brainwashing, or are his lethal attacks on his former captors_ despite _his conditioning? He knows what these men have done, knows what they’re capable of, knows—_

Distressed whimpers broke into Steve’s thoughts, brought his attention back to the soldier before him.

_Bucky would kill him for who he is, for what he’s done, for the choices he’s made…_

_…the Winter Soldier killed not only his targets, but every witness to his assassinations save a child…_

_…but he did spare the child…_

_…I have to entertain the possibility that Bucky would kill these men regardless of what they have or haven’t done, because the torture he’s been subjected to has so devalued human life in his eyes that he sees no reason not to take the most expedient path to victory._

_I shouldn’t encourage his amorality. I should seek to mitigate it, help him remember that life – his life, my life, even the life of this bastard cowering before me – has value._

_If I deny that this Hydra soldier deserves mercy, I negate everything I believe in and I lose any moral high ground I might have used for insisting that Bucky deserves mercy. When – if – we return west, there will be people who will want to see Bucky executed for the crimes he’s committed. If I’m to talk them down…_

_…assuming they’ll listen to me…_

_…I mean, just look at me…I’m no longer the poster boy for logic and sanity in the face of the adversary._

_Pfft. Anyone who_ ever _thought I was the poster boy for logic and sanity in the face of the adversary never saw me in a fight._

“Get up,” Steve commanded in German. The man squeaked and scrambled back a few feet. A wet spot stained the deck beneath where his butt had been. “Do you speak German?” The man shook his head. “Russian?” Steve asked, switching. The man nodded. “Find a place to hide, and if you get the chance, surrender to someone who can take you into custody. Rethink your life choices. Understand?” The man didn’t stop nodding the entire time Steve spoke. Nearly every inch of his skin was covered, but his eyes seemed youthful to Steve, and sympathy twisted in Steve’s chest.

 _And just because I_ think _every Hydra soldier joined up because they believed in ‘the Cause,’ I don’t_ know _that. How many of these soldiers were coerced or threatened into joining? How many thought they had no choice? How many are prisoner in all but name? When they joined, did they know what they were getting into? Once they were here aboard the ship, what choice did they have save to obey? There’s no place of sanctuary near here, no escaping over the frozen wasteland that stretches farther than the eye can see._

A dark shadow caught the corner of Steve’s vision, and Steve glanced to see Bucky stepping up beside him, rifle trained on the soldier, who quailed and cowered, throwing an arm over his face as if the gesture could protect him from getting shot.

“Winter Soldier,” Steve cautioned. Bucky flinched. “He’s done. There are better ways to win this fight than killing everyone in the opposition.” Bucky’s emotionless eyes flicked in Steve’s direction, finger against the trigger. Laying a hand on the heated metal of the barrel and nudging down gently, Steve was gratified when Bucky took the hint and let the weapon fall to his side.

“My method is efficient,” said Bucky through gritted teeth. “Besides, they hurt you.”

Steve blinked and looked down at himself. Exasperation was his knee-jerk reaction when he saw the fresh dark blood leaking from a bullet wound just above where his tentacles split from his body.

_Knee-jerk. Ha._

Steve had gotten shot – fairly seriously from the look of things – and hadn’t even _noticed_.

_My pain tolerance is still adapting and improving, even if my ability to heal seems to be regressing._

_No, not regressing: it’s been a week, I was severely injured, I have exacerbated my wounds repeatedly, and I_ should _have died. That I’m alive, that my hand recovered, that my nose is now unbroken, is sign enough that my healing is doing its damnedest. Maybe I should do my part and_ stop getting fucking hurt _constantly._

“Soldier, if causing me an injury was a death sentence we’d _both_ be on the hook,” Steve pointed out dryly.

“That’s…that’s true,” conceded Bucky. Life came into those dull eyes as he shot Steve a half-smile, obvious even through his balaclava. Turning on a dime, Bucky snapped the gun up and fired, the sound rigging in Steve’s ears. Steve turned to see a soldier fall, gun clattering to the deck beside him. When Steve faced forward again, the soldier he’d spared was gone.

“I won’t let them hurt you,” Bucky vowed, eyes scanning the deck. Steve followed his gaze.

Smoke obscured the view, drifting in gray clouds that lingered as if heavy, billowed of the edges and sinking toward the ground below. They made it look like the ship had taken to the sky while Steve was distracted. People moved, dark shadows darting through the fog. The _boom_ of the cannon firing aboard the frigates came sporadically, blasts followed by a crunch- _crash_ and the shriek of metal tearing and the screams of men. Tattered filaments of deep red snagged and tore in the wind as a half-dozen planes burned. A gust carried smoke toward them and heat unlike anything Steve could remember feeling in months…years…since before his escape from Hydra, since before his capture, since before his last six months fighting in Europe through the depths of an Austrian alpine winter…

…since before Bucky died…

There was a slam so close behind him that Steve started and wheeled, hands and tentacles raised defensively. Beside him, Bucky turned as well, gun ready, sweeping the deck for a target.

Save for the unmoving bodies of the unconscious and dead, no one was there.

Flickers of movement distracted Steve, wind blowing, people moving, smoke cascading outward. The boat rocked – the ice around them demolished enough for the _Graf Zeppelin_ to float free – and something nearby clanged. Steve took in the swaying, unmoored, unmanned howitzers, the rifles and pistols scraping the deck as the ship tipped under another onslaught. A headless corpse slid over the edge and plummeted out of sight, and a _clang_ and a flash of silver caught Steve’s eye.

The door leading into the conning tower was open.

Steve was in motion before he spared a thought for his intentions. Shoving the door open, a half-dozen conflicting plans of action demanded his attention – _seize the ship and hail a surrender, get in the hold and look for documents, track down Reinhardt and take him into custody, find a radio to let Carlos’ crew and whoever is aboard the other ship that I’m okay—_

_Getting control of the ship should be my priority. All the rest will be easy if we are in command._

_Of course, having control of the conning tower isn’t the same as having any kind of control over the madness on the decks, but…_

Shaking off his doubts, Steve headed up the stairs. Bucky’s boots clomped and rattled behind him.

“What are you doing?” asked Bucky.

“Seizing Command and Control,” Steve explained, pausing on the first landing up. Climbing the single flight had winded him more than he expected, every huffed breath tearing at his wounds. He put a hand to his chest, to steady himself, to feel his racing heartbeat, and clenched his teeth against a wave of pain.

_Breathe through it – I’m okay – this’ll heal, the faster if I can get myself and Bucky to somewhere with heat and fresh water and cooked food and medical supplies._

_Next time I see Margaret she is free to dose me with whatever she wants! I won’t even complain. Much._

“What are you waiting for?” Bucky snapped. He brushed past Steve and started up the second staircase. “C&C is top floor.”

“Thank you,” Steve murmured, following in Bucky’s wake. If Bucky heard, he didn’t reply, and Steve didn’t push it.

 _This is the same man who tried to kill me, or at least_ thought _he was trying to kill me, as recently as three days ago._

Two floors up.

_He tried to strangle me._

_He said I disgusted him._

_He sewed my wounds shut._

Three floors up.

_And now…now he’s helping bring about the downfall of the organization that turned him into a monstrous shell of the man he once was._

_Please…let my trust not be misplaced. Please let this not be a trap. Please,_ please _let this be Bucky helping me, for whatever his reasons, rather than the Winter Soldier seeking to fulfill his mission._

The staircase dead-ended on the fourth floor landing.

Steve set a hand on the bulkhead door, curled his fingers around the wheel, and hesitated. “Is it weird that there’s no one guarding the staircase?”

“No,” said Bucky. “Protocol in case of attack is for all essential personnel to report to their stations and for all non-essential personnel to await orders.”

“Which are you?”

“Neither,” Bucky replied, a vagueness to his voice that Steve couldn’t explain. His nerves flared. “I’m not personnel. I’m the asset.”

 _Not ‘an’ asset._ The _asset._

_Not personnel. Not a person. A thing. A belonging. Equipment, like the ship, like the rifles, like the howitzers._

_And he sounds so calm about it._

_Further implication…there are no other prisoners like him. They’d not refer to him like that unless he was their_ sole _asset._

“What are _your_ orders during emergencies?”

“Meet Herr Reinhardt at the chair and await further commands.”

 _The asset reports to_ the _chair…_

_The chair…_

Vivid memories of the last Hydra complex came to Steve, of the banks of unknown tech lining the wall, of the dials and readouts, of the chair placed like a throne in the center of the room, of the hood apparatus attached diabolically to the top.

 _If I ever saw something I’d describe as_ the _chair…_

_And they made Bucky sit in that, used it on him, somehow programmed and broke him by having him sit there._

_I hope the schematics I sent west made it to Peggy’s hands, to Stark’s. If anyone could understand that technological mumbo-jumbo, it’s him._

_Recreating that chamber is awful to contemplate, but if it can brainwash people…maybe it can un-brainwash them…_

_And maybe – almost certainly – there’s another room like it on the ship. If I can take control of the_ Graf Zeppelin _, turn the piloting of it over to Carlos’ men. They can bring the whole ship back to England, records, prisoners, sadism chair and all._

_I trust Bucky. I trust what he’s told me. If he were acting as the asset now, he’d follow his orders and report to wherever the chair is aboard this vessel. It’s inconceivable that such a thing would be put where C &C would be on any normal ship…_

_…then again, when has anything about Hydra suggested normalcy?_

_They grafted. my torso. onto the tentacles. of a goddamn. squid._

_Get over it, Steve. Being a squid is awesome, and Bucky has shot at least a dozen of his supposed allies to protect me._

_Of course I trust him._

With a decisive nod, Steve turned the handle and pushed the door open.

Wide bay windows looked out on the frozen Arctic landscape. Consoles ringed the room, men seated before them intent on read-outs, radar screens, and gauges under continual monitoring. To one side, a man whispered a continual string of apparent nonsense – surely a code – into a handset, and a second man stood beside him, scanning over a jagged line outputting continually onto a strip of ticker tape. No one reacted to Steve entering the room, and a chill of fear trickled down Steve’s spine, triggered spasms from his wounds. In the near-silence, skin-crawlingly eerie after the cacophony of cannon fire and chaos outside, the closing of the door behind him was loud, hollow, the lid of a casket being lowered moments before the coffin was nailed shut.

_My similes get macabre when I’m nervous._

Bucky stood beside him, casting a wary eye over the eight soldiers seated at their stations around the room. His rifle was half-lowered at his side, but tension kept his arm so taut it shook, and he was clearly on the edge of violence.

_Then why doesn’t he attack?_

_Unless—_

“Herr Reinhardt, first deck is—” A Hydra soldier turned, chair swiveling beneath him, and his jaw dropped when he saw them. “You’re—!”

Every head jerked up, trained men reaching for weapons all around, but compared to Steve they were slow, and compared to Bucky they might as well have been paralyzed. Bucky’s rifle snapped into position and he snapped off one – two – three – four – five shots. Steve wanted to linger and watch the majesty, the artistry, of Bucky’s magnificent performance, but there were more than five opponents in the room, and Bucky had to pause to reload. Steve launched himself at the two working the radio, mashing one’s head into the wall, slamming the other to the floor. Whoever listened on the other end of the radio connection squawked protest, tone demanding but meaning unintelligible – coded or in a language Steve didn’t know. The last man in the room was just getting his feet under him, just getting a hand to the pistol holstered at his side. Bucky took a step farther into the room as he finished reloading, slamming the final bullet into place, and lifted it to fire at the same time Steve clocked the man in the face. The punch landed and a bullet tore through the man’s head. The thick glass behind him splintered, a spider web of cracks tinkled across the surface as blood beaded down it and red glowing in the sunlight.

“That was much easier than I expected,” Steve observed breathlessly.

_Stupid, stupid, Steve, that’s just asking for it, and…_

Steve turned to the door, the corpse falling behind him. Instinct told him trouble was seconds away, but nothing happened.

“It’s just a room,” Bucky observed ominously.

_Ominously? No, that’s my paranoia speaking._

_Don’t be so superstitious, Rogers. Saying things like that doesn’t_ cause _bad things to happen, no matter what Ma always said._

_And no amount of looking around is going to find me some wood to knock on in this hellhole._

The panels around him were all metal and glass. Suspicion made Steve’s fingers itch. Without the knowledge to interpret the readouts and equipment that made the vast ship function, the _Graf Zeppelin’s_ C &C truly was nothing but a room, just as Bucky said. Whoever was on the other end of the radio shouted increasingly annoyed protest at the silence, and Steve crossed and turned the dial to a random frequency, replacing the babble with static.

_Remember when I decided to seize control of the ship? Should have thought through how impossible that’d be given my limited knowledge of ship-craft._

_Limited? Try_ non-existent _knowledge of ship-craft._

“Don’t suppose you know how to pilot this thing?” asked Steve, a sweeping gesture encompassing everything behind him.

“No,” said Bucky.

“In that case…” Steve puffed his cheeks out and blew a rough exhale. “Okay, the radio – that part makes sense. The frequency is…” Steve had watched Carlos contact his crew repeatedly, and though he’d tried not to pry, he knew what settings Carlos did. His hand settled on the knob, scanning through channels, past static and faint chatter, and—

The door slammed open.

Startled, Steve leapt up and agony exploded in his torso. Groaning, he crumpled to the floor, clutching his bleeding stomach, trying to catch his breath. Swelling his lungs hurt too much for him to do more than pant inadequately. His eyes squeezed shut against the pain, his hearing muted against the rush of blood, his thoughts too swamped to interpret what happened around him.

_Get it together, Steve, get it together, get it together, get it together…_

Boot stomp, boot stomp.

_…get it together…_

“Are—”

“Gruzovoy vagon, soldat!”

_…get it together…_

Something hard knocked against something else hard, twice in quick succession.

_…get it together…_

“Ya gotov otvechat.”

_…get it together…_

_I know that voice. God, it hurts – focus, focus, Rogers, I’m…I’m on the Graf Zeppelin, in C &C with—_

“Bucky!”

“Ubey yego.”

_That’s…that’s Russian. I know that voice, too. Fight through it, Steve, I’ve got to…got it…_

With a roar and an agonizing tear of flesh, Steve forced himself upright, tentacles writhing around him. His vision washed red; his head snapped up to show him Reinhardt’s familiar thin face sneering at him. Mere steps away, Bucky turned toward Steve, rifle lifting, but he was slow, too slow, far slower than he was capable of going.

Bucky swung at Steve’s head, as clumsy as a palooka in the ring for the first time, not the prize fighter Bucky was even before Hydra enhanced his speed and strength.

Steve caught the blow, wrenched the rifle from Bucky’s grasp, and tossed it aside. A telegraphed punch towards Steve’s head came next, and Steve deflected it. As predictably as Bucky now moved, Steve would normally have been able to dispatch him easily, but Steve’s movements were injury-slowed, his body and thoughts unresponsive. Fending off Bucky’s mediocre attacks required all of Steve’s focus; he was aware of Reinhardt moving in the close room but couldn’t divide his attention enough to track what he did. Bucky launched a kick, an elbow jab, pivoting on his formerly shattered kneecap as if he’d not been incapacitated a mere week ago.

“Stop, Bucky – it’s _Reinhardt_ , he did this to you – did this to me! Fight them, Bucky! They don’t control you. You have a choice!”

“Podchinyat’sya, soldat.”

_Russian…Russian…he ordered Bucky to obey. They call him Soldier, too. No wonder he was more comfortable being called the Winter Soldier than he was being called Bucky._

_Have I, inadvertently, made it harder for Bucky to shake off their mind control because I’ve continued to refer to him by that name?_

_Never again!_

Reinhardt’s tone was derisive, scoffing, stirred horrible memories of being locked in a room, electrocuted, told time and time again to choose a picture – time and time again to make the pain end by selecting an image of an innocent in agony.

_Reinhardt did that to Bucky, did it to him over and over until he broke – electrocuted him and tormented him until Bucky chose a picture of me with my eyes gouged out, because picking that image was the only way to make the pain stop._

Bucky’s movements slowed down even more. Metal shrieked on metal across the room as Reinhardt did _something_ , but when Steve tried to spare a glance to see what, Bucky landed a punch to Steve’s jaw, knocking him back against the glass.

_As I am, I can’t fight him off, even with him holding back to near-human capabilities._

_I can’t win this by throwing down with fists._

_Just like old times._

“Bucky – Buck, you gotta listen – it’s me, it’s Steve.”

“Subject 05641,” Reinhardt snapped, still speaking Russian, but now that Steve knew what he heard, his knowledge of the language kicked in and he understood.

“I’m alive – I’m alive thanks to _you_ ,” Steve implored. “You don’t want to fight me. You don’t want to kill me. You don’t want to obey Reinhardt. I _know_ you don’t.”

Steve got a tentacle in the way of a gut kick; he flinched, unable to prevent himself from imagining how painful that blow would have been had it struck. Backed into the corner by the radio, Steve could scarce maneuver, but he couldn’t bring himself to fight back. Dodge, parry, deflect, avert, intercept, anything to keep Bucky from doing him harm, but he _would not_ hurt Bucky, not now that he knew that Bucky didn’t want to hurt him, not now that he knew that Bucky had as much control over his own actions as the _Graf Zeppelin_ did when run on autopilot.

With sudden speed, Bucky swept low with a kick, and instinctively Steve squatted and dodged to protect his legs.

 _I don’t have legs, Steve, how stupid can I be? It’s a feint, and_ —

A rabbit punch slammed into the back of Steve’s head, drove his chin into the solid metal deck beneath, and Steve’s vision flashed white and red. Reinhardt crowed something triumphant that Steve couldn’t make out, blood coated Steve’s tongue as his teeth tore into his lip, and his nose crunched.

 _Again_.

The deck vibrated beneath him, the ship swayed, and Steve struggled to lift his head, to blink his swimming vision clear. Swishing the liquid in his mouth, Steve spat a tooth and a glob of blood-laced saliva onto the deck and looked up.

Bucky stood over him, aiming the rifle at his head.

“You gonna shoot me, Bucky?” Steve grinned. He could only imagine how he looked with his face streaked in red, his teeth bloody. Their exchange of blows made it clear that, in a fight, Bucky had his number. If Bucky went balls-out to kill him, there was nothing Steve could do to stop him. Reinhardt likely _didn’t_ want Steve dead, but Reinhardt knew how well Steve healed. However incapacitated Steve grew, odds were that if the initial shot didn’t kill him, he’d end up alive and in Hydra custody when all was said and done.

_Time to call this bluff._

“Do it,” said Steve. Midday light poured through the windows behind Bucky, rendered his features in deep shadow, made his eyes appear black. Above his mask, his forehead was pinched, eyes squinting against the brightness, hands shaking minutely as he clutched the rifle. “Come on, _Winter Soldier_ , prove yourself a loyal pup for your new masters. Shoot me.”

“Soldier!” Reinhardt spat. Steve longed to look and see what Reinhardt was doing, but Bucky’s eyes were locked on Steve and Steve didn’t dare look away. Bucky’s concentration was intense, his struggle obvious and terrible to behold. The trigger clicked under Bucky’s metal finger, but he didn’t draw back enough to fire the gun.

_So much finesse in that limb, yet so much power…it’s a masterpiece of engineering. Imagine if Hydra turned their technological prowess to good, instead of evil!_

_Steve._

_Not. The. Moment._

Blood trickled sour down Steve’s throat.

“Whatever you decide…” Steve said hoarsely.

_...Steve’s eyes itchy and raw with unshed tears…_

_…Steve’s apartment, so empty, the curtains his mother had just hung flapping in the wind…_

_…Bucky’s hand firmly clasping Steve’s shoulder…_

_…Bucky’s blue eyes staring into his…_

_…God, Buck, I love you so much, and…_

“I trust you, Buck. I’m with ya ‘til the end of the line, to whatever end. So if pulling that trigger is what you need to do, you do it, you hear me?”

The rifle slipped in Bucky’s grip, barrel pointed at the floor inches from Steve’s nose. A tear rolled down Bucky’s stoic face.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” said Reinhardt. “I should thank you, Herr Rogers. I thought our work with Subject 03412 complete, but clearly we have a long ways to go.”

Bucky’s hand shook with increasing violence, his eyes wide as he stared down at Steve. Steve’s eyes burned with the need to blink. Moisture dampened his fingers where they clutched the metal on the floor.

“Sleep,” commanded Reinhardt.

Bucky blinked, shattering the connection that eye contact had given him and Steve, and another tear streaking down his cheek. He gave a single sharp shake of his head, his eyelids drooping, as he strained to resist the command.

“Soldier!”

Bucky’s stance went tense, his shoulders shuddering up towards his ears as if the spoken command physically hurt him. He dropped the rifle before Steve’s face with a clatter and fell back against the wall, doubling over, clutching his stomach, shaking his head more forcefully.

Steeling his will against overwhelming pain, gritting his teeth, Steve planted his hands beneath him, curled his tentacles so they’d support his weight, and pushed himself up.

“Reinhardt,” he snarled.

“So many unsuccessful experiments,” sighed Reinhardt. Bucky slid down the wall, settling heavy to the floor. Metal ground against metal as Bucky’s elbow scraped the bulkhead behind him, his fingers clawing at the ground beneath him.

_Bless him, he’s still trying to fight._

“But that’s the beautiful thing about science,” Reinhardt mused. “No guess work. No estimation. The sole difference between failure and success is more experimentation.”

Reinhardt stood on the far side of the small room, something bulky, metal, and mysterious clutched in his arms.

“The more daring the hypothesis, the more trials needed to refine the methodology, the more failures stand between the diligent scientist and eventual discovery,” Reinhardt continued. He stared at Steve, lips curled in a condescending sneer. “And the greater the risk, the greater the obstacles, the greater the challenges overcome, the more laudatory, the more lauded, the more vaunted the eventual success. You think you fight for _justice_ , but when Hydra’s advances are gifted to the public, they’ll be grateful, they’ll _thank_ us for the work we’ve done on behalf of the deserving members of humanity. They’ll pay for our medicines, for our cybernetics, for our weapons, and never question on whose sacrifices their cures were built.”

“I’ll destroy you,” whispered Steve. The wetness coating his hand was his own blood, a growing puddle spreading brilliant crimson over the metal floor. Bucky leaked a troubled noise, shaking his head again, fingers denting the metal floor, hair a curtain between his face and the world.

“Psh,” Reinhardt scoffed. “You will – you _have_ helped us, invaluably, as have all your _friends_. What a marvelous real-world trial letting you run amok has been. All part of the plan.”

 _That’s not true. That can’t be true. It makes no sense. I_ know _he’s a master manipulator. I know he’s an expert at psychological warfare. Don’t listen to him. Why am I still squatting here? He’s just a man. I could attack him – I can shut him up any time I want to._

Yet Steve couldn’t bring himself to move.

“All part of the plan,” Reinhardt repeated, smile widening to show perfect white teeth. “Your performance has been exemplary, Subject 03412, and yours as well, Subject 05641. Project Kraken has proved even more successful than I’d hoped. The versatility of your body – genius, if I do say so myself.”

_Fight him._

_Why can’t I fight him?_

_What if he’s right? What if my worst paranoia is fact? What if I’ve been on Hydra’s leash all this time?_

_Even if I can’t bring myself to move…I can still…_

“Bullshit,” Steve spat. The word cracked through the room, breaking the spell Reinhardt had woven of words. Beside him, Bucky started, side-eying Steve, terror twisting his features. “Pat yourself on the back all you want, Reinhardt, but you’re a _hack_ , a midget standing on the backs of giants.”

“Big words from a man whose every success is thanks to the abilities science has granted him.” Unphased, Reinhardt’s grin widened still farther.

“Steve…” whispered Bucky.

 _Not the Winter Soldier. That’s Bucky. I_ know _Bucky._

Move _, Steve!_

Growling, Steve didn’t bother standing; he scrambled at the slickened metal floor and threw himself across the room toward Reinhardt.

Reinhardt’s eyes crinkled he smiled so widely, so coldly, so inhumanly.

Something beeped.

Filaments of light erupted from whatever Reinhardt held, exploded outward in a ring, caught Steve in his midriff and threw him back as if he was a ragdoll.

“No!” Bucky howled.

Steve slammed into the glass window, pressure squeezing him agonizingly between the wall of light and the bullet-fractured glass. A shrill sound grew higher and higher pitched, drowning out all other noise, and Steve struggled to keep his eyes open as they teared and the light filaments coruscated around him. Reinhardt nodded thoughtfully, slipped into a considering frown, watched Steve. The invisible, light-cloaked force crushed Steve against the inches-thick windows, and Steve’s chest gave way before the unknown force dissipated. Breath whooshed from him, whistled through his throat, his lungs screaming. Tears streamed up over his forehead, forced from Steve’s eyes.

Reinhardt caught his lip between his teeth, quirking his head to one side, and pursed his lips.

And Bucky…

Bucky’s mask moved as his lips worked, his head shook as he argued with himself, fingers bending and flexing against the ground.

Repressing sobs, Steve strained and turned his head, barely, and stared down at Bucky.

Their gazes met.

“Buck…” Steve tried to say, but his lips wouldn’t move and no sound escaped him. Even air couldn’t penetrate the wave of power from Reinhardt’s weapon.

Bucky’s eyes went wide.

There was a crunch – _my ribs, ow ow ow owowowow shit – ow – no!_

… _­_ Steve couldn’t move, but he _was_ moving, backward, as the window behind him dissolved into shards that pelted his shoulders. The fabric over Bucky’s mouth shifted, but if he spoke, Steve heard nothing. Moving as if through molasses, Bucky threw himself forward, sprawled over the floor, hand groping from the discarded rifle. Cold air rushed around Steve, and he might have been floating, might have been flying, fragments of glass and light scattering around him. For an endless moment, Steve drifted backward, conning tower exterior before him, tentacles streaming through the air, and watching the scene unfold within C &C. Bucky grab the rifle and swept around to aim at Reinhardt. Reinhardt’s expression went condescending and he opened his mouth to speak.

Steve’s hearing resolved in time for the _crack-snap_ of the rifle firing to echo, teeth-jarringly loud, through Steve’s head.

A hole materialized in Reinhardt’s head, smile still locked in place, eyes rolling back.

The solidified air and light vaporized to thin arctic air.

Bucky twisted around. His horrified expression was the last thing Steve made out in C&C before he plummeted downward.

_I have got to stop falling off of aircraft carriers. Seriously, bad habit to get into._

A wave of agony and vertigo swept nausea through Steve, beads of blood freezing to pellets as his wounds leaked around him.

_Something tells me that falling off aircraft carriers’ll never be a problem again, Rogers. No way I’m walking away from this one._

_Don’t walk away from_ anything _, Steve, not any—_

The crunch as Steve hit bottom was the last thing he heard.


	19. Chapter 19

_Blink._

Rat-a-tat-tat-tat pattered the rapid fire of a machine gun.

_Blink._

A roar of fury rang loud in Steve’s ears, weight heavy and close around him.

_Blink._

_Well, I’m not dead. That’s…unexpected._

_Blink._

“Stay _back_ ,” snarled a harsh, furious voice.

_Blink._

_Bucky’s not dead, either._

_Blink._

“Bucky, we’re – we’re here to _help_! Steve! _Steve_!”

_Blink._

“Peg…” Steve tried to mumble, but his lips felt glued together, his mouth simultaneously bone dry and choked full with something.

_Blink._

Bullets whizzed through the air nearby and someone screamed.

_Blink._

Eyes open or closed, all Steve could see was the darkened sky overhead, swirls of deep gray clouds whisking by, smoke carried by the frigid wind.

_Blink._

_Have to…have to see, have to help…help…someone…_

_Blink._

Breathing was excruciating, moving was excruciating, existing was excruciating, and Steve quelled a plaintive thought that suggested that death might have been preferable to waking up to _this_.

_Blink._

_Stuff it, Steve, I don’t even know what_ ‘this’ _is, and if you don’t find the guts to_ move…

_Blink._

Squeezing his eyes shuts against tears, Steve got an arm under him. Something cracked as he moved – _my arm, that’s my arm, probably broken from the fall, or, rather, from the impact_ after _the fall_ \- but he got his chest up, lifted his head, turned enough to make out the scene around him.

Metal radiated cold behind Steve, guarding his back. The Winter Soldier stood before him, hair billowing in the wind, wielding a machine gun of a caliber usually reserved for a trench emplacement. He brought the weapon to bare against those before him as if it weighed nothing, the kickback nothing compared to his strength. Arrayed in a semi-circle around them were familiar faces, far too many familiar faces, recognizable even bundled up against the Arctic cold. Peggy caught his attention first, Howard standing at her side with an arm thrown protectively before her. Falsworth, Morita and Jones clustered nearby, all three aiming pistols toward Bucky, their goggles not enough to obscure how troubled they looked. At Steve’s far right, Carlos led a contingent of determined, heavily armed pirates, and to his left, the other eleven members of the Wrecking Crew stood, eying everyone else suspiciously.

Around the circle, first Peggy, then Morita, then Sayaana, tried to advance a step, and Bucky swung the machine gun their way, threatening. Sayaana chanced a second step, her exposed metal leg gleaming, and Bucky fired a barrage near her feet. She skipped back, frightened, and cried in Russian, “We’re trying to help!” The corpses of several Hydra soldiers lay at awkward angles about the deck, but Steve saw no evidence that his friends had been bloodied by Bucky’s fire – Bucky must have missed intentionally.

_Well, that’s something, at least..._

Peggy looked his way, caught his eye, and gasped. “He’s alive!” she cried.

Everyone save Bucky turned toward him.

Steve lifted a tentacle and managed a pathetic wave. Peggy’s hand flew to her mouth.

Ice cracked as Steve struggled to force his mouth open, used his tongue to push out the sludge of half-dried blood, slush, and thickened saliva that blocked his ability to speak. Peggy looked on the verge of tears.

“Buck,” Steve croaked, voice soft and reedy. If Bucky heard, he gave no sign. Peggy took a step forward, hand outstretched, trying to brush past the restraining arm that Stark held before her. Bucky raked the deck before her, shots ricocheting, and she froze with a soft, pained cry. For a heart-stopping instant, Steve thought she’d been hit, but there were no tears in her winter gear, no spray of blood.

“Damn it!”

“Stand _down_ , Bucky!”

“You fricken idiot!”

“We’ve got to get to Steve!”

All around, people moved – the Howling Commandos advanced with weapons outstretched, Lydia gestured for Alison and Sayaana to try to sneak around the flank, Carlos’ crew surged forward and shouted in Spanish.

“Stay _back_ ,” Bucky roared, sweeping the machine gun around threateningly.

Everyone froze.

The belt-fed ammunition scraped over the deck, loud in the sudden silence.

“I…I killed him,” Bucky breathed.

“You – you didn’t.” Peggy eyed the machine gun nervously but took a step forward regardless, showing the courage of a lion as she held her hands before her and tried to make herself small and non-threatening. “Steve is alive, Bucky. He’s right behind you. You’ve protected him. You’ve done enough. Please let us help him.”

“No,” whispered Bucky, shaking his head. “Not…not Steve.”

“It _is_ Steve, you lunatic,” Howard snapped. “And he’s not dead but he _will_ be if he doesn’t get treatment!”

“You don’t _understand_!” snarled Bucky.

_No, they don’t. How could they?_

_But…but I do…I think…_

_Here’s hoping..._

“Buck…” Steve tried again, ragged, scarce audible over the background crackle of flames and rush of wind. Bucky flinched. _At least he can hear me._ “Reinhardt _is_ dead.”

“Reinhardt’s _dead_?” exclaimed Alison.

“He…he _isn’t_ ,” said Bucky, shaking his head violently, machine gun aim not wavering. “He _can’t_ be. I _know_ how this works. Tricks within tricks within tricks. But I _won’t. let. him. have. you._ ”

“What are they _saying_?” asked a frustrated Sayaana in Russian. Takumi shrugged; he didn’t speak English either.

“Steve’s Winter Soldier killed Werner Reinhardt,” Margaret explained to them in Russian.

“He’s not…”

_He’s not my Winter Soldier._

_He’s my_ Bucky _._

Steve pushed the thought away. True or false, it was a problem for another time. If Steve couldn’t keep the love of his life from mowing down every friend Steve had in the world; figuring out what Bucky was to Steve, what Steve was to Bucky, was a problem for later, if there was a later for any of them.

“Look at me, Winter Soldier.” Steve imbued his wrecked voice with what authority he could. He tried to push himself into a seated position but the pain in his chest was too intense, and he collapsed back onto the deck. It was all he could do to keep his head at an angle to watch Bucky obey, stealing wild-eyed glances at Steve over his shoulder. Steve tried to make his expression reassuring, but even smiling hurt. “I know you don’t trust yourself – I know, _know_ , what Reinhardt did to your grip on reality. He did it to me, too.”

“And me,” interjected Margaret. “All of us.” Mayeso nodded, one of the only people facing them sans protective gear, and the other Wrecking Crew members as well.

“So, _don’t_ trust yourself,” Steve said. Bucky started. “Do you trust me?”

“Subj…subject 05641…”

_Two steps forward, one step back…_

Bucky’s attention increasingly shifted from his prospective targets to Steve, his body turning, turning, by degrees, the muzzle of the machine gun slipping down. Steve’s peripheral vision showed him his friends and allies tentatively drawing nearer, and Steve tensed to restrain himself from waving them back. Bucky dangled over a precipice; the slightest nudge and he’d be saved or lost. Their locked eyes were as powerful as a handhold; their connection had more tensile strength than woven steel.

Steve _would not_ let Bucky fall, not again – _never_ again.

“You know me,” Steve said.

“I don’t remember.” Bucky’s voice was plaintive, almost a whine.

“What _do_ you remember?” asked Steve.

“I…I don’t _know_.” Bucky shook his head frantically. Peggy lunged forward, hand outstretched toward Bucky’s shoulder, and Steve grimaced in an attempt to arrest her. She skidded to a stop; Bucky blanched as he caught Steve’s disapproval and misinterpreted it. “I’m sorry – I’ll do better. Of course I trust you, sir. Heil Hydra!”

“Oh, Bucky…” whispered Peggy, stumbling back a step.

Bucky cringed. Steve held out a hand toward him; without appearing to realize what he did, Bucky swayed nearer, tottered back. The machine gun dangled in his limp arms. Howard got a restraining hand on Peggy’s arm, and she casually shook him off, gaze locked on Bucky.

All eyes were on Bucky, but Bucky only had eyes for Steve.

“What are your orders?” The mechanical, subservient note was back in Bucky’s voice.

“Simple,” said Steve with a sad smile. “Bucky, say my name.”

“Subject 05641,” Bucky replied. “Project: Kraken.”

Steve shook his head and Bucky cowered, hunched his shoulders, and folded in on himself.

_Have to help him, have to…_

Steve’s tentacles stayed stubbornly limp around him, hardly twitching.

_I can’t get up._

_I’ve got a bad feeling I’m going to imminently find out if I can heal a snapped spinal cord._

Inch by inch, Bucky moved closer.

“What’s _your_ name?” asked Steve. Slumping back against the deck, Steve lost sight of his friends. Bucky filled Steve’s field of vision.

“Subject 03412,” said Bucky automatically. Steve shook his head, vision swimming. “The Winter Soldier.” Steve shook his head. Bucky swallowed, eyes tilted, cloth of his mask catching between his anxious lips. When he spoke again, it was so soft Steve could hardly hear him. “You said… _you_ said…my name was...is...James…Buchanan…Barnes…?” Breaking into a soft smile, Steve gave an approving nod and was surprised when Bucky’s expression twisted with anger. “No! James Barnes is _dead_. You killed him! And I…I killed you!”

“So you do know who I am?” Steve challenged him. _It’s sort of progress…_

_…and he’s not wrong, at least about the former…I didn’t pull the trigger, didn’t push him out of Zola’s train, but I might as well have done…_

Bucky didn’t answer.

“I’m sorry I didn’t save you, Bucky.”

“There is no _Bucky_!” Bucky’s grip on his machine gun firmed and he swept in a circle, belt feed sweeping an arc around him, and scuffling sounds spoke to the others retreating. Several started to protest, but Steve cut them off with a wave. This wasn’t _about_ them, this was about Steve doing with words what he hadn’t been able to do a year ago with strength and resolve.

_Never, ever let you fall again…_

“There is no Subject 03412, no Subject 05641,” countered Steve. The conversation felt achingly familiar, the bruises still ripe on Steve’s neck where Bucky had strangled him, and yet completely new. What Reinhardt had said in the conning tower had been a vain attempt to reassert Hydra’s control of _the asset_. Steve had to break through Bucky’s conditioning again, but this time the stakes were higher. Before, only Steve’s life had been in danger – Steve and Bucky’s – and now…Bucky’s frightened mien was hard to watch, but Steve _had_ to get through. If that meant hurting him... “There is no _Hydra_ – there won’t be by the time we’re done. There’s no _Winter Soldier_. There’s just _you_ and _me_. Don’t lie to me – I know you remember who I am!”

“I _don’t_!”

“Why are you afraid to admit it?”

“I don’t know you. I have _never_ known you! You are _no one_ to me, _nothing_! _You are my mission_.”

“Buck, I’ve learned the hard way that no matter how many times I repeat a lie to myself, it never becomes the truth.”

“I _am not_ Bucky Barnes!” shouted Bucky, rounding on Steve, aiming the machine gun at him from mere feet away. A chill ran down Steve’s spine, fading to numbness above his tentacles. At this range, if Bucky opened fire, Steve would be torn apart. They’d have to carry whatever was left of him around in a bucket.

_If I marshaled all my strength, got my arms under me, maybe I could move my tentacles, maybe I could pull myself to safety, maybe—_

_Maybe hell will freeze over._

“And…and you’re _not_ Steve Grant Rogers!” Bucky’s shout turn frantic, frightened, pained. “Steve Rogers is _dead_!”

“I’m not, Bucky – you know I’m not. You can see I’m not. Trust your senses.”

“My senses _lie_! _I saw you die_! I _killed_ you! Over and over and _over_ I killed you, they _made_ me kill you, made me _want_ to kill you! You _deserved_ to die for what you let happen to me! Everything that’s happened is _your fault_.”

The chill tingling down Steve’s back burgeoned outwards, swallowed his pain, swallowed his fear, swallowed even the sadness clenched at his heart. Certainty and confidence brought the moment into crystal clarity.

“I agree,” said Steve softly. One of the onlookers gasped. “What happened to you is my fault. If vengeance will bring you peace, happiness and purpose, then shoot me.” Bucky shook his head, tears splattering, the air so cold they froze in midair and tinkled as they struck the deck. “I didn’t go back for you. I could have and I should have. You said…you told me you’d always be there for me, proved it time and time again, but I failed to do the same for you. I stood in that train car and I watched you fall. I defied my heart in the name of _reason_ because I was _so sure_ you couldn’t have survived. I failed you. Hydra found you when it should have been me. I’m so sorry, Bucky. I accept your judgment of me, accept whatever sentence you name for my crime.”

“Steve, _no_!”

“It’s alright,” Steve called to his friends. “It’s alright, Bucky.” Steve offered Bucky a reassuring smile, unsure what to make of the mask of rage shadowing Bucky’s brow, the tears streaming from his eyes so thick they spread a growing semi-circle of ice crystals white over Bucky’s black mask. “I forgive you. I trust you. My life is, and always has been, yours to use as you will.”

“I killed you,” sobbed Bucky. “You’re dead. You’re _dead_ , Steve!” Bucky’s hands shook so badly that the machine gun clattered in his grasp. “You’re _dead_ ,” Bucky snarled, sweeping the gun back into position.

“I love you,” Steve whispered, letting his eyes slip shut. “Ever, always, yours, James Buchanan Barnes, Winter Soldier, Subject 03412, _Bucky_. No matter who you are, or what you become, that’ll never change.” Steve managed a wry smile. “You’re stuck with me.”

Silence fell over the decks of the _Graf Zeppelin_ , an endless, impossible moment, quiet save for the rattle of the machine gun and the pained wheeze of breath in and out of Steve’s crushed chest.

_I didn’t die when they drowned me, didn’t die when they froze me, didn’t die when they dismembered me._

_I have no idea if this will kill me, if this_ could _kill me._

_But if Bucky pulls that trigger…if he can bring himself to do that to me…_

_I hope I never wake up._

In the distance, a bird cawed, a man shouted, something rolled and crunched over the deck. Steve’s consciousness lay trapped in his body, yet somehow hovered free of the pain, the sadness, the desperation to see Bucky saved, to see his friends safe.

“ ‘til the end of the line,” Steve whispered.

Bucky wailed, sound punctuated by the heavy clunk of metal against the deck – Bucky dropping the machine gun, Steve thought.

“Thank God,” whispered someone fervently.

Steve opened his eyes.

Bucky was on his knees beside Steve, deep sunk eyes rimmed in red, hands hovering near without touching as if he hadn’t a clue how to proceed.

“Steve,” he breathed.

“Hey, Buck.”

“I’m not – I don’t – _you_ don’t…I don’t know! I don’t _know_! I don’t _remember_!”

“That’s okay.” The world darkened, the sun setting, Steve’s vision tunneling on Bucky’s face. “Told you before – tell you again – don’t gotta know…don’t gotta remember…don’t ever…I’ll always love you…just…just as you are…” Steve’s tongue felt leaden. His heart raced. His vision flickered, went out of focus, solidified on the only point of reality he felt sure of: Bucky’s haggard face, his gorgeous eyes made red and sunken by grief and horror, his hair clinging to his face, dampened by tears and sweat.

“Geeze, Stevie.” Bucky’s voice was gravel, shattered, and yet achingly, delightfully, euphorically familiar. “Fuck, but you always _were_ crazy.”

Relief and joy brought a smile to Steve’s face. His eyes slipped shut and the ghost of Bucky’s face guided him into the darkness.

Bucky hadn’t fallen.

Steve had caught him.

_I succeeded. This time, I succeeded._

_Thank God._

* * *

 

Blotches of color spread over the bottomless blackness of existence, like ink diffusing, like oil swirling iridescent over water, like blood splattering. Steve couldn’t have said when the colors formed, couldn’t have explained when he became aware enough to _realize_ he was aware. The flashes were soothing, terrifying, peaceful, incongruous. They twisted and shifted, appeared and disappeared, pulsed and grew, shrank and vanished only to reappear transformed yet identical, sometimes colorful, sometimes starkly white and black. Steve tried to grasp them. The colors represented thoughts, maybe, or the pattering of rain over his skin, maybe, or the rhythm beating of his heart, or _something_ , something _important_. Though Steve’s awareness floated, formless, he conceived himself as embodied, imagined that he had a hand with which to strain toward the colors and the sensations they must represent, imagined there was intent behind the way the blotches stayed ever out of his reach or slipped away or drained through his fingers like sand through an hourglass.

Frustrated, Steve tried harder, tried to reach the colors, tried to dive into them, tried to merge with them, tried to open his eyes and see what truly lay beyond his diaphanous, tenuous existence, but he couldn’t.

He ran after the colors.

But he couldn’t reach them.

He swam toward the colors.

But he couldn’t reach them.

He ranted and railed at the colors, grumbled and complained, cajoled, begged them to reveal their secrets.

But he couldn’t reach them.

With a mental huff, Steve grumpily gave up.

Color exploded around him, exploded through him, and with a throat-searing scream Steve woke up, eyes flying open to show him brilliant light glaring down from overhead.

“Hold him – for _God’s sake_ , _hold him_ you son of a bitch!”

Something bound Steve’s shoulders, ensnared some of his tentacles, but not all.

_Hydra! Hydra’s got me! No no no no nononononononononono –_

_Noooooooooo!_

Heaving up with all his might, blindly lashing out in all directions, Steve struggled for freedom, for escape. He couldn’t turn his head, couldn’t see anything but the dazzling brightness and the metal, but voices shouted around him, men and women.

“Steve!”

“Ow!”

“The rope isn’t holding!”

“He’s too damn strong for his own damn good!”

“Steve, you’ve got to relax!”

“No!” Steve roared, muscles bunching and surging as he tried to break free of whatever held his wrist. Something snapped and pain coalesced _everywhere_ , through every inch of Steve’s body, as white-hot as if Steve had leapt into the inferno.

_What compound are they testing now? What are they doing to me now? They can’t – I won’t let them! I have to—_

Pressure ensnared his tentacles, the force around his wrists and shoulders intensified, and struggle as he might, Steve couldn’t break free. Whatever bound him was strong, but the pain was incapacitating. Screaming, throat raw, Steve fought but there was no winning free and every movement was agony.

“No,” he moaned, a pitiful, helpless protest against the vile fate awaiting him. “No...I’ll...I’ll talk...ask me...anything...just stop...plea...” Tears ran down his face, blood coated his mouth. His chest felt torn open – Herr Reinhardt was doing surgery on him again, spreading his ribs apart, exposing his heart to the terrible rigors of the open air. Steve was alive, and unsedated, and he was stronger than them – they were only human, he _must_ be stronger than them – but he couldn’t break free, because it hurt too much, because he’d already been tortured so many times, because he’d fought and fought and fought and _could not_ fight any longer.

_Pathetic, Steve._

_They’re going to make me like the Winter Soldier._

_Bucky! No!_

“Shh...shh, Steve, calm down – you’re making it worse.” A face swam into his tear-blurred vision, and though her features were unclear, there was no mistaking the woman for anyone other than Peggy. “Bucky is here with you – with us. He’s fine – he’s _going_ to be fine – but you’ve got to stop fighting so hard. We’re here to help you.” Her usually carefully arrayed curls were disheveled, her eyes dark, her lips blood-red, and _they have her too, they’ve turned her, just like they’ve turned Bucky, and I’m_ still _too weak..._

_I have to..._

_...have to..._

_...have to..._

“I’m sorry.” The words came out garbled by saliva, by the tatters that screaming had made of Steve’s throat. His lips were unresponsive and thick. The urge to fight drained from him.

_They’ve dosed me again._

_Reinhardt’s secretary is making a neat note in my file – administered 2,000,000 milligrams of ABC-123 whatever – and Reinhardt is nodding thoughtfully and considering how to carve me up, carve me anew – I’m the kraken. I’m the Hydra logo. I’m a skull with tentacles, that’s what I’ll become, that’s what they’re making me, no, please stop, please stop, please—_

“I’m sorry,” Steve breathed again. “I’ll be good...please stop...”

Impossibly gentle fingers curved over his brow, tender and soothing, and the achingly familiar scent of Peggy’s perfume wafted into his nose.

Steve sobbed until whatever they’d given him took effect and the world faded back to the void oblivion populated only by meaningless nebulae of feelings turned to color.

_It’s over._

_At least I truly did my best._

_Yes, Steve. Yes, Rogers._

_That was my best._

_And like every fight of my life, every fight I’ve lost, my best wasn’t good enough._

_Heil Hydra._

* * *

_Having experienced the early stages of Hydra’s psychological torture techniques, Steve thought he knew what the Winter Soldier had been through..._

_...Subject 03412?_

_...Bucky?_

_The image that formed in Steve’s mind was a conglomeration, a hybrid, with Bucky’s swagger, his handsome face twisted into a brooding glower, the Hydra logo branded as living fire into his chest. The flames surged, burgeoned, sparked, then died back down to simmer as glowing embers embedded in the Winter Soldier’s bare chest. The red star on Bucky’s arm was a cruel staring eye, a mockery of life and hope, controlling, judging, sure and certain, subverting every good thought, twisted every good feeling._

When you wish upon a star...

I wish to wake up from this torture-induced nightmare.

Please, Bucky – make my wish come true.

_Subject 03412 blinked slowly, but the dream didn’t end._

_Of course the dream didn’t end._

Hydra sinks their victims into hell and leaves them there to navigate the world as they might. Where once I saw beautiful fields, smiling friends, allies welcoming me home with outstretched arms, now there’s nothing but brimstone and chasms of fire and the Devil himself embodied in Herr Reinhardt to greet me.

This is where the Winter Soldier lives.

This is where Peggy lives.

This is where I live.

There’s no escaping this suffering, there’s only alleviating the strain on my soul by passing the agony on to the next person. The world’s most awful game of hot potato.

 _Steve looked to the Winter Soldier. Bucky’s smile was a mockery, lips curled up but eyes emotionless and distant. As if reading his mind –_ what makes me think he’s _not_ reading my mind? _– Bucky nodded once, slowly, and the flames curled and licked over his skin, blackening it, destroying it, uniting with it, reinvigorating it. Their eyes met, and Steve’s reflection stared back at him: a bared skull, vacant eye-holes staring out, teeth exposed, bottom jaw gone, a travesty of a grin mounted over a writhing mass of eldritch tentacles._

I’ve seen this before.

When they took my picture, eyeless and lipless.

I was right, this was always the plan.

I am not Steve Rogers. I am the kraken. I am the Hydra.

 _Red trails like lava trickled down Steve’s tentacles in searing, comforting rivulets. The fire built in him, was him, twisted and danced, tattered and sparked and reformed like a blaze in the wind, and Steve_ was _the fire._

_“Are you ready?” asked the Winter Soldier, Bucky’s voice in English overlaid with Reinhardt’s speaking German overlaid with guttural Russian and broken Italian and vehement Japanese, the Axis, the evil in the world made manifest in one demonic form._

No.

 _The evil in the world made manifest in_ two _demonic forms._

_Subject 03412. Subject 05641._

_“Yes.”_

_Steve had no mouth to open, not lungs to breathe, but the sound formed within him, without him, swelled to fill the vastness of the inferno in which they dwelled._

_The world winked to darkness._

_“Together,” Bucky whispered._

_If Steve yet had eyes, he’d have wept._

 

* * *

“Steve? Can you hear me, Steve?”

Vivid, terrible memories crashed into Steve’s awareness, of waking up in a Hydra torture chamber, of Reinhardt’s emotionless, systematic, pseudo-scientific approach to Steve – no, to Subject 05641 – and echoes of pain, and pain, and pain, and—

_—and Peggy!_

With a gasp that turned into a groan, Steve tried to sit up but couldn’t. Muscles tensed against restraints and he bit his lip against a sob.

“Damn it, Alison, you said these would hold him _still_!”

“What can I say?” Alison replied in her familiar southern drawl. “Your boy is damn strong. I guess-timated. Guess I guess-timated less-timated.”

“He’s not...he’s not _mine_ , and he’s not a _boy_.” Peggy sounded exasperated.

Sense began to percolate through the chaos in Steve’s thoughts, confusion and pain made manifest as an edge of hysteria that set Steve’s teeth chattering and his lungs heaving.

“I told you it was too soon to wake him up,” grumbled Margaret. Something brushed Steve’s arm and he flinched.

“No more sedative,” Peggy insisted. “He’s had _enough_. After the way he reacted last time...”

_What’s going on?_

“We’ve been over this,” said Margaret. “I appreciate your concerns but I’d rather him scared and knocked out than awake, terrified, straining, and exacerbating his injuries.”

_Why are they here?_

“‘Appreciate your concerns,’” Peggy mimicked acidly. “Sounds like you did your training with the same B.E.F. _arseholes_ that I did.”

_Where is here?_

“Fine,” Margaret said, matching steel with steel. “ _Agent_ Carter, in my _professional_ opinion, Steve Rogers should be kept anesthetized until his wounds have healed.”

 _How did Hydra get to_ all _of them?_

“Yes, _Nurse_ Wilson, I’m familiar with your _recommendation_ ,” said Peggy. “Available evidence suggests that you are insufficiently versed in _Captain Rogers_ ’ unique biology to keep him under sedation.” _Were they taken in the failed attack on the_ Graf Zeppelin _?_ “Given the number of times he’s _woken up screaming_ mid-procedure, I believe the time has come to re-evaluate his treatment plan.”

_This is my fault, for charging ahead alone, for leaving my friends to fend for themselves._

“You have a point,” Margaret conceded begrudgingly.

Steve didn’t think he’d _ever_ heard her concede a point. She was the most stubborn person he’d ever met.

_Second most stubborn._

_Peggy is the most stubborn._

_Hydra failed to break Margaret, though they held her and tortured her for_ years _._

_What if..._

Steve’s eyes flicked open.

Familiar fluorescent tubes buzzed softly overhead, reflecting a yellow-tinged glow over the metal ceiling.

_But this is the same room as I was in before, when Hydra had me._

_Unless..._

“While you two were bickering, Sleeping Beauty woke up,” pointed out Alison.

Clatters and rustles spoke to people moving around him and before Steve could muster the wherewithal to attempt moving his head, two faces leaned into view.

Though both looked tired, neither Peggy nor Margaret bore signs of being systematically tortured. Neither had regenerative abilities – or they hadn’t before – so surely if Hydra had gotten to them, he’d be able to see _something_.

_It’s not like all Hydra agents wear the logo tattooed on their forehead, goose-stepping in knee-boots and offering a ‘Heil Hydra’ in place of a ‘good morning.’_

_Then again, I can’t think of a single Hydra agent I’ve met that_ didn’t _have the logo_ somewhere _on their person._

 _When they turned Bucky, they didn’t bother pretending he wasn’t their possession, their_ asset _. If they’d turned Peggy and Margaret, would there be any call for subterfuge?_

Peggy’s brow furrowed deeper the longer Steve stared at her.

“Steve?” she asked, a hand stretching into his view but stopping short of touching him. Catching her lip between her teeth, she waved the hand before his eyes.

“He’s definitely tracking,” said Margaret thoughtfully.

“ ‘m so’ ‘wee,” Steve mumbled. Though his thoughts seemed cogent, his mouth felt weird, the muscles stiff, his lips unresponsive.

“Can you hear us?” asked Peggy.

Steve tried to say ‘yes’ but forming the letter ‘y’ proved beyond his capabilities, so instead he hummed, “mm hmm.”

“Thank God!” Peggy exclaimed, falling back and out of view. With a monumental effort, Steve turned his head in the direction toward which she’d disappeared. She’d settled into a chair, or maybe a stool – she was sitting on _something_ but it was small enough that her body blocked the furniture from view. Close against her back was a wall identical to the ceiling.

“How do you feel?” asked Margaret.

‘Shitty,’ ‘terrible,’ ‘like someone took a carving knife to my chest,’ and ‘like my legs...tentacles...have been hacked off’ all sprang to mind, but his lips were having none of it. After several abortive attempts to form sounds, Steve managed to leak “Baaaaaaad” into the quiet room.

Alison giggled.

Peggy looked stricken.

“It’s not funny,” Margaret reprimanded.

“ ‘tis,” Steve managed. “ ‘lil.” He attempted a smile, but Peggy’s expression grew more concerned. She lifted a hand toward him again, dropped it to her lap, and nerves had her bunching up the fabric of her skirt. Alison laughed harder.

“Do you know where you are?” said Peggy. The sharpness that always came into her voice when she was distancing herself in the name of accomplishing whatever goal she’d set herself was familiar and contrasted oddly with the knit in her brow, the wetness rimming her eyes, and the set of her mouth.

“Hy...der...” Steve said.

Peggy shook her head. “I don’t understand.”

“Hyder,” Steve tried again.

“Hydra?” Alison interpreted, voice still thick with humor.

“Mm hmm.”

“You think this is the _Graf Zeppelin_?” asked Peggy.

“Mm hmm.”

“You’re aboard the former _USS Natchez_ ,” Peggy explained. “We’re stilling working on the new name. Last I checked Stark had the crew painting _Good Ship Howie-Pop_ on the side. Yes, really,” she added, catching something about his expression that communicated the incredulity he couldn’t vocalize. “The US Navy is short on funds. Stark was happy to provide them a ludicrous amount of money in exchange for a frigate that’d be under _his_ command instead of Colonel Philips’. Enough money that the Navy didn’t ask questions.”

Fingers wrapped around Steve’s wrist and he tried to jerk away, but pain cascaded through him and he whimpered and went limp. The grip tightened, skin cool against his, and belatedly Steve realized that Margaret was trying to take his pulse.

“Shh, Steve,” she said soothingly. “You’re safe.”

Steve looked a question at Peggy.

“The _Graf Zeppelin_ has been seized, and a joint crew of pirates and Stark employees are navigating it to safe waters,” she said. “The surviving Hydra soldiers are in the brig. The Howling Commandos and the Wrecking Crew have been combing through Hydra’s files, looking for more bases and Hydra cells operating in the west. I’m also hoping we’ll get enough information to force a confrontation with Stalin, but I’m not optimistic.”

“Are you _ever_ optimistic?” Alison chirped.

“I’m a realist,” Peggy replied steadily.

“Pulse is good,” said Margaret. Fatigue made Steve’s eyelids heavy. Surely only minutes had passed, but fear thrummed through him exhaustingly. Though his friend’s words reassured him, the hyper-reality of the other times he’d awoken and the surreality of his dreams ate at his perception and sowed the seeds of doubt.

He had no idea what Hydra was capable of.

He knew _just enough_ about what Hydra was capable of to be terrified.

A blink turned into a thirty second struggle to open his eyes again.

 _If I drift off, where will I wake up? Here, or on the_ Graf Zeppelin _, or in Europe, or in hell?_

_If I fall asleep, who will I be when I wake up? Steve Rogers? Captain America? Subject 05641? The kraken?_

_If I close my eyes, will I wake up alone? Will Peggy be here? Will Margaret? Stark? Lydia? Will Carlos be locked in a cell beside me?_

_Where is Bucky?_

A bolt of cold dread temporarily dissipated Steve’s drowsiness. He tried to sit up, but a feather-light touch on his chest was enough to restrain him.

“What is it?”

“What’s wrong?”

“Did I hurt you?”

“Steve?”

“Let ‘im breathe,” said Alison, eye-roll audible.

“...uh-ee,” Steve said. _Damn it, lips, work!_ Peggy shook her head, uncomprehending. Steve’s attempt to make a ‘b’ sound came out more like a ‘pfft,’ but he managed to get out “...uc’ ee.” Peggy shook her head again. “P...p...t... _B_...key...”

“Oh,” said Peggy, pursing her lips with understanding. “Bucky.”

“ ‘uc’ ee,” Steve confirmed, barely restraining himself for attempting to nod agreement.

“He’s right here, Steve,” said Peggy, gesturing toward the foot of the cot on which Steve lay. Attempting to roll his head far enough down to see what she meant showed him more light bulbs and the juncture of the ceiling and the wall opposite him, but pain and a weird sloshing, liquid sensation in the vicinity of his nose aborted his attempt.

_...what if I don’t have a nose..._

_...what if I’m a Hydra skull..._

There’d been a picture of Steve with his nostrils ripped out. They’d done that to him once and he’d survived it. They could do that to him again, as many times as they wanted, and there was nothing Steve could do to stop them.

_But Reinhardt is dead, right?_

_I saw him die, saw his head explode._

_I saw Bucky shoot him._

_Do I believe my eyes?_

_Why should I? Bucky was utterly convinced he’d seen me die, utterly convinced he’d killed me himself._

_For all I know, he did._

_Who’s to say that Hydra didn’t involve him in the “experiments” they conducted on me?_

With a distressed whimper, Steve fell back against the bed.

“Try to keep still.” Though the words were kind, Margaret’s tone was harsh. She was a great woman, but damn did her bedside manner need some work.

_She and Bucky can bond over that._

_If Bucky’s really here._

“He’s refused to leave the room since we brought you here – it’s been two days,” Peggy explained.

“Yeah, and what is it about you super soldiers that you don’t need to piss and shit like the rest of us mere mortals?” Alison chimed in.

The shock on Peggy’s face was comical. As worldly as she was, her moments of stiff upper lip British aristocratic prudery were _priceless_. Steve would have laughed, but the promise of excruciating pain dampened his amusement.

“We’re about 36 hours from home,” Peggy continued, scowling and straightening out the wrinkles she’d clenched into her skirts.

“Hmm?” Steve said.

“I don’t...”

“Howmmmm,” he tried again.

“Home?”

“Hmm.”

“Stark sailed from Spithead, with MI-6’s begrudging blessing,” said Peggy.

_Fine. That’s nice. England isn’t home, but it’ll do._

Peggy continued to speak, but exhaustion made it difficult to focus on her words, his vision going blurry and clear by turns as he struggled to keep his eyes open.

_But where’s Bucky?_

_Is he really...?_

“B-key?” Steve demanded. Even his voice, such as it was, sounded fatigued.

Peggy smiled. “Alison, show him?”

Footsteps rattled on metal. Steve attempted once again to look down his body, enough to see the blankets tucked high over his chest and the strange mounds his covered tentacles made. Plated metal came into view, fingers, wrist, arm, elbow, shoulder carved in the imitation of muscles, and a single red star-point.

Bucky’s arm.

“He’s asleep,” said Peggy.

“ _Finally_ ,” Margaret added.

Alison curled her hand around Bucky’s and puppeted the fingers to the appearance of playing an invisible piano. “Pretty much full-on passed out. Same as you’re about to do.”

“She’s right,” said Margaret. “And you were right,” she added, turning to Peggy. “Steve, there’s no call for you to stay awake on our account, and no matter your insistence to the contrary, I remain _convinced_ that you heal better when asleep. Rest. There’s a call button by the door if you need us.”

“I’d like to...” Peggy’s gaze flicked away from Steve, up and behind him – presumably toward Margaret – as Alison let go of Bucky’s hand. “May I stay?” Peggy’s look directed the question at Steve and Margaret both.

“As long as you’re quiet,” said Margaret.

“Do you mind?” Peggy asked Steve.

“Nn.”

“Is that a yes or a no?”

“St...aaaaaaaa...” Steve breathed, eyes slipping shut.

He wanted to open them again, to saw thanks and ‘see you later’ to his friends, but he couldn’t. Boots hitting metal and the familiar squeak of a door handle being turned, the familiar clatter of a bulkhead door opening and closing, spoke to their departure. Warmth glowed against Steve’s side and fingers entwined with his.

“Hush little baby, don’t you cry...” Her voice lilted, the words growing indistinct as Steve’s doze deepened.

_...a la nanita nana, nanita ella, nanita ella..._

“...if that diamond ring don’t shine...”

_If they’re telling the truth..._

_...then I did it. I saved Carlos and Lydia and Margaret and Alison and Takumi and Sayaana and Mayeso and everyone..._

_...I saved Bucky..._

_...and they in turn saved me..._

_...and what cause, really, do I have to doubt that they’re telling the truth?_

It was the most comforting thought Steve could remember having in a long, long time.

“...so hush little Stevie, don’t you cry...Bucky loves you, and so do I...”

Smiling, Steve fell into a peaceful, deep, dreamless sleep.

 


	20. Chapter 20

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

Mere moments passed between every repetition.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

At first, Steve couldn’t assign meaning to the noises, but the longer they continued and the more awake he grew, the more he recognize the sound of someone pacing.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

With each _rustle, scrape_ , there was a telltale rush of air against the exposed skin of Steve’s arm. Whoever walked by was close, and the room – _my hospital chamber, such as it is_ – was small enough that they couldn’t manage more than a few steps between turns.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

Three steps, precisely, every time, at precisely the same tempo and volume.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

Anxiety seemed to radiate from that controlled, confined march, tension leaking under Steve’s skin.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

Keeping his breathing slow and even, Steve took an inventory of his body. He was a far cry from healthy, and his tentacles ached from long exposure to air, but he could breathe without pain, clench his muscles without them knotting up, shift his body without wishing for the paralysis that he briefly, terrifyingly had experienced aboard the _Graf Zeppelin_.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

Steve opened his eyes.

_Stomp, stomp, stomp._

_Rustle, scrape._

Bucky’s back was to him as he paced away, shoulders tight beneath the loose, ill-fitting white shirt he wore, stained yellow in places. The fabric strained over his flesh arm, armhole frayed where the other sleeve had been removed to make allowance for the bulk of his metal limb. Suspenders held up slacks so over-sized that the waistband flapped when Bucky twirled on a heel – _rustle, scrape_ – and took a half step back toward Steve.

Their eyes met.

“Steve,” Bucky breathed, beautiful gaze pale and wide in the muted light, lips parting around a slight, hopeful smile.

_He knows me._

Grief and relief entwined, balled up in his chest, and escaped as a sob Steve hadn’t anticipated and couldn’t repress.

“Shit, Stevie!”

A second sob burst out, and a third. Bucky was at his side in an instant, on his knees beside the cot, metal fingers fumbling for Steve’s hand.

“S’ok, you’re okay – hell, Peggy told me she explained stuff and you understood and – and—” Bucky shook his head, grimacing. “I tried to tell her it wouldn’t be that easy – she’s a nice dame, always has been, and I know you’re sweet on her, but she...she doesn’t know – she doesn’t _really_ know...ya know?”

 _He even_ sounds _like Bucky!_

_How can this be real?_

_It’s only been – what, a couple days since we assaulted the_ Graf Zeppelin _, isn’t that what Peggy said?_

Steve wanted to stop crying, wanted to reply, but he couldn’t. His fears and his sorrow and his delight were a morass that threatened to consume him, and he needed _some_ outlet. The more desperate breaths he drew in and raggedly choked out, the more tears fell down his face, the more the familiar pain grew in his chest, his lungs, his belly, his nose.

“Margaret’s gonna kill me,” Bucky muttered.

“Buck—” Steve managed to force a gasp out, relief intensifying as he realized his damn jaw seemed to be working correctly again, but Bucky interrupted him by rising. Metal fingers enmeshed with Steve’s, flesh fingers brushed tears from Steve’s cheeks, Bucky surged closer, closer, and their lips met.

_Oh._

_My._

_God._

Astonished, Steve didn’t reciprocate, thoughts racing, only to coalesce around a few simple truths.

One: No one in the world kissed Steve like Bucky did.

Two: In a damn _million_ kisses, Steve would recognize Bucky’s lips by feel and taste alone.

Three: That was _definitely_ Bucky.

Four: If this was all a Hydra trick then the world be _damned_ because Steve was owned hook, line, and sinker.

Grasping Bucky’s hand tightly, Steve returned the kiss, lips chapped and rough and perfect. Disappointment thrummed through him when Bucky drew away, and Steve longed for the freedom to use his hands or tentacles to grab Bucky’s head and force their mouths back together. Though he understood logically that he was restrained for his own protection and the protection of those treating his injuries, he hated feeling imprisoned, and he hated it even more now that it prevented him from making it _abundantly_ clear how much he returned Bucky’s apparent sentiments.

His tears stopped as abruptly as they’d started.

“What happened to you?” Steve croaked. The words came out as a slurred blur, but at least they came out, and judging by the sheepish grin and half-shrug Bucky gave him, Bucky understood.

“I mean, it’s not so bad,” said Bucky, cocky, almost smug, in his nonchalance. “You know how it went.”

Steve’s credulity snapped.

“Tell me the truth, Bucky,” Steve said.

Bucky stared him down, maintaining his wryness in the face of Steve’s disbelief, but tightness spread crow’s feet around his eyes, paled his lips, and the longer their eyes met, the more Bucky’s mask slipped.

_Bucky doesn’t need a balaclava to hide his emotions._

_He always was damn good at playing the fool and pretending there wasn’t a thing amiss when he was breaking inside._

_Except he never used to wear that mask around_ me _._

With a sigh, Bucky looked away and down, lips compressing to a thin line. He shifted back from Steve and leaned his hips against the edge of the cot.

He kept their hands entwined.

“I’m trying, Steve,” said Bucky, even his jocular tone fading toward Winter Soldier-esque neutrality. “I’ve been, um, trying to remember – to remember more. It comes back to me in bits and pieces. Carter and Stark were impressed, and Jones and Morita seemed to buy it, so I figured I was on the right track. That’s...that’s how I acted before, right?” Bucky’s smile returned, softer, fainter, painfully hopeful.

“I don’t need the song and dance,” said Steve. Speaking got easier the more he did it. Thank God, ‘cause he had the feeling this was going to be a long, difficult conversation for both of them.

Bucky frowned and quirked his head to the one side. “We...we didn’t dance, did we?”

_He’s definitely not firing on all cylinders..._

_...but still, he’s trying. He’s talking. He’s able to_ mimic _Bucky, at least well enough to fool the others, and he sees the value in_ trying _to behave as he once did._

_It’s progress._

_Two steps forward..._

“Only once or twice in the privacy of my living room; more often if you mean euphemistically,” said Steve.

Bucky’s frown deepened, then broke into a smile like the damn dawn after a storm. “ _That_ I remember,” he said proudly.

Despite his worries, Steve laughed.

“What I meant, Buck, is – you don’t have to pretend to be someone you’re not. Never with me, okay?” Steve clarified.

“I don’t understand.”

“Act however comes natural,” said Steve. “If that means cracking a joke, fine. If that means being quiet and contemplative, fine. If that means asking me to explain something, fine. I don’t mind. Where you are _now_ , psychologically, however far your recovery has come, I’ll support you as best I can, for as long as you want me too.”

“That...” Bucky shook his head. “That _can’t_ be right. You want me to be ‘Bucky.’ I _know_ that’s your expectation. That’s why you treat me the way you treated _him_. You want me to act the way he did. Even if you don’t mean to, the weight of your expectations – of _everyone’s_ expectations – are obvious in what you say and how you behave.”

_...one step back._

“You’re...you’re not wrong,” Steve admitted, sighing. “I wish we could go back to how things were, when you were just Buck, and I was just Stevie, and we split our time between our tenements, and we worked our crappy jobs, and we played on Coney Island or at Prospect Park or snuck into Ebbets Field. But you’ve changed, and I’ve changed. However much _I_ wish you were...who you were then...I know, intellectually, that you can’t magically revert to some past iteration of yourself any more than I can, and...look, what _I_ want is irrelevant. What do _you_ want, Bucky?”

“I don’t know,” Bucky said, grimacing with frustration. “Why does it matter?”

“Because _you_ matter.”

“I _don’t_!” Bucky snapped, surging to his feet, dropping Steve’s hand. The loss of that palpable connection between them was a wrench, but Steve stopped himself from chasing the warm grasp. “I’m...I’m...” He stomped the short couple of strides to the far side of the room and deflated, dropping his head against the metal. Long hair swept his shoulders and hid his face from view. “God, I hate talking to you.”

“I’m sorry.”

“No, you’re not.”

“No, I’m not,” Steve conceded. “Look, Bucky. Reinhardt tortured me too. I escaped before things got as bad for me as they did for you, but I _get_ it. I _know_ how it felt to reach the point that I would say anything, do anything, _be_ anything, to get them to stop hurting me. I know they brought you to that point over and over and over again before you snapped, until you snapped, _after_ you snapped. I know how strong you were, how strong you _are_. You’re gonna act however you think gives you the greatest likelihood of surviving, right? With Hydra, that meant being their perfect Winter Soldier _asset_ , and here, now, with Howard and Peggy and the Commandos...and me...that means pretending that _poof_ , you’re all healed, all better, ta-da, you’re Bucky again! ‘Cause unless I miss my guess, you remember what you did on Hydra’s orders, right...?”

Steve caught a glimpse of the sparkle in Bucky’s eyes as Bucky shot him a side-eyed glance through the screen of his hair and conceded the point with a terse nod.

“And you suspect what’ll happen if you reach Europe and they think you’re still a mind-controlled killing machine,” said Steve. “Honestly, I have no idea if you should be worried. I don’t know what’ll happen when we’re back on friendly shores. I’m not exactly America’s poster child returned unscathed from the war. The tentacles won’t make a good look on the latest recruitment posters, if they’re even still printing recruitment posters. From what Peggy tells me, the Allies want to forget everything that happened and move on to peacetime pursuits as quickly as possible. So, taking all that into account, here’s my question: _are_ you still a mind-controlled killing machine?”

Stricken, Bucky turned to him. “No!”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes! I killed him – I _killed_ Reinhardt, and after we seized the _Graf Zeppelin_ I burned his corpse and spread the ashes out to sea. Reinhardt is _dead_ , and so is Wolfe, and Schmidt, and Ivanov, and Weber is in custody, and they told me, your Commandos _swore_ to me that Zola is being arrested,” Bucky ranted in a terrified rush, words coming one atop the next. “No one else can work the chair – I know – I _hope_ – I mean, I never saw anyone else make it work, and even if they did...I wanted to smash it to bits, but they took you here, and if I leave, they might do anything to you. As long as I stay here...and now they have the chair...and Stark’s been studying it, I know he has. If he figures out how to make it work...” With a shudder, Bucky trailed off, dropping to his knees beside the bed again. With his wide-eyed, frightened look, his face resting on his curled arm, he projected the vulnerability of a child, but his expression was too haunted and the gleaming metal of his arm was too vivid to maintain the illusion.

Steve stretched his fingers out and brushed the metal of Bucky’s arm. Bucky’s responding shiver was the first concrete evidence Steve had seen that Bucky had actual sensation through the artificial – _cybernetic, Reinhardt called it_ – limb.

“I know you’re scared,” said Steve gently.

“But you’re not,” said Bucky.

Steve barked a rueful laugh. “How can you think that? Remember that bit where they had to tie me to the cot to keep me from killing Margaret and escaping ‘Hydra?’” Bindings held Steve at the wrist but he pivoted his hand as far as he could and wiggled his fingers in Bucky’s face by way of a wry wave. “I’m _terrified_ , Bucky. Talk to Alison, Lydia, Sayaana, Margaret…no, maybe not Margaret, I don’t think anything scares her…talk to any of the former Hydra prisoners, I think they’ll tell you the same.”

“Knowing that doesn’t help.”

“I didn’t think it would.”

“What do…” Bucky hesitated, looked up through eyelashes whose delicateness never ceased to surprise Steve, then looked away again, gaze lost on a ripple in the blanket. “What do _you_ want?”

_To annihilate Hydra._

_To return home._

_To help my fellow prisoners recover from our shared trauma._

_To do my part healing the rifts the war left in the world, in the hopes of building a lasting peace._

_No, Rogers, those are the things_ you _want, the things you think I_ should _want, the things it’s right and proper for me to want. They’re not what I actually want._

 _What_ do _I want?_

Steve opened his mouth to answer, caught a glimpse of unreadable emotion on Bucky’s face and shook his head. “Don’t use me as your guidepost.”

“But—”

“We’ve established you’re _not_ under Hydra’s sway right now,” Steve cut in. “You have free will, Bucky. You must want _something_ for yourself…”

Bucky’s gaze flicked to Steve’s face again, flicked away again. “Maybe one thing,” he mumbled.

A flush of heat suffused Steve’s cheeks, splashed over his chest like someone had dumped a bucket of water on his head, set his heart racing and his tentacles twitching beneath the blankets.

_He couldn’t mean…_

“Ya know, um, never tell me more than you’re comfortable with,” said Steve awkwardly.

 _Really, Rogers? Gonna go all reasonable on me? Tell him I want_ him _, and not just because he’s Bucky! Tell him I wanted the Winter Soldier before I realized it was him!_

 _No, Steve! I won’t risk Bucky’s mental health because you’re horny. He could mean_ anything _. Only rose-colored glasses could interpret his statement as pertaining to me._

“I know,” said Bucky. Steve’s flush deepened. _He doesn’t know what I’m thinking…he doesn’t know what I’m thinking…_ “Thank you.”

_After everything I’ve been through, I’d have thought the shine of idealism and hope would have worn off the world._

_I’m so, so_ incredibly _glad it isn’t._

 _Underneath this unrecognizable exterior, I_ am _still Steve Rogers._

_One person, divided between a sense of duty and a sense of self._

_What do I want?_

_I want to see Hydra destroyed._

_…but haven’t I given enough?_

_I want to rest._

_I want Bucky._

_I want the Winter Soldier._

_…but I have the_ ability _to do so much more to help vanquish Hydra, to help the world, and it’s my responsibility to see that through._

_Why?_

_Why does it have to be me?_

_I know it’s hard, Steve…but when push comes to shove, I must do the right thing._

Light reflected off Bucky’s eyes, beautifully clear and pale blue. They’d seemed dark when he’d been under Hydra’s thumb, but now they were open wide.

_He sees me now._

_I wonder what he sees._

_Pssh, I know exactly what he sees. A squid. A science experiment gone wrong – gone right – well, not gone as Hydra planned, anyway._

_Unless this is exactly what they planned. I could be a sleeper agent, or a dupe, or…or…or I could be precisely what I feel myself to be._

_In the absence of evidence to the contrary, I_ must _take the world at face value, accept the assessment of my senses and the conclusions of my intellect._

Bucky blinked, and Steve could swear he saw a mirror of his own confusion in Bucky’s thoughtful eyes.

_Easier said than done._

Steve couldn’t have said how long passed in silence, his thoughts spinning around. Finally, Bucky reached over and undid the cuff holding Steve’s hand. Rising, circling the bed, Bucky did the same with each of the other restraints. Pressure dissipated from Steve’s chest and he sighed with relief. He’d not realized how much being bound weighed on him until he was free. He brought his hands together over the blanket, over his stomach, rubbing them together, massaging at his wrists. He’d not been bound tightly enough to have chafed or lost circulation, but it was still great to curl fingers around his flesh, to rub at his skin, to feel familiar, unhesitant, pain-free touch.

Shimmying upwards, Steve propped himself up enough that he could see the far wall. The room was as small as he’d thought; with his tentacles free, Steve thought he’d not have to move to reach every wall. He didn’t test the hypothesis. Even sitting at an angle hurt, and the prospect of moving any more was daunting. Without the straps holding his tentacles in place, they spread limply over the narrow cot and draped over the sides, escaping the confines of the blanket. Bucky didn’t seem to notice. His gaze averted, he leaned against the bed again, facing away from Steve.

“Thank you,” said Steve, imbuing his voice with as much genuine gratitude as he could. Bucky didn’t react, didn’t reply. Steve waited, nostalgic for a time when there were no inhibitions between them, when, day or night, conversation flowed endlessly on any topic.

_With patience and hard work, we’ll get there...if Bucky wants to..._

“How is your memory coming along?”

“Not great,” Bucky admitted, twisting to face Steve, getting a knee up on the cot. “Images come and go but there’s no context. The person in those images...the man who experienced those things…that’s not me.”

“That you’ve changed doesn’t invalidate the continuity of your existence,” objected Steve.

“Yes, it does,” said Bucky without a trace of doubt. “If I can’t remember my… _his_ …life experiences, if I can’t piece together the events into a coherent narrative, if I can’t recall emotional responses, motivations, reasons…I’m less connected to the man you all say I once was than I am to a well-thought out character in a flick. Just can’t decide if I’m the Scarecrow, the Tin Man, or the Lion.”

“Nothing so easy,” Steve replied, smiling. They’d seen Wizard of Oz together, saving pennies for days to see the world on screen in vivid Technicolor. Bucky had _some_ memories. “If we had a yellow brick road to follow, things’d be a heck of a lot easier.”

“Naw.” Bucky shook his head. “Wouldn’t trust it. Actually…that’s kinda what it was like, workin’ for Hydra. A single, straight path set before me that I had to follow. Why did I have to follow it? Dunno. What’s at the end of it? Dunno. Nothing existed – nothing was _supposed_ to exist – except for that path leading to my destination – to my mission. I’m not a…I wasn’t…” A frustrated sound caught in Bucky’s voice. “They made me a weapon. I had as much say in my trajectory as a V-2 mid-flight. ‘Cept…I’d be cruising along, focused, sure, and I’d see something and…and for a second I’d _remember_. I couldn’t hold on to the memories; it was like waking up from a dream, knowing there’d _been_ a dream but only unease to say what it’d been. And I know I’m not makin’ any sense but it _didn’t_ make sense, it _doesn’t_ make sense, and even now that I’m remembering more…I feel like I’m on the verge of… I feel like I’m about to wake up, like _this_ is the dream. It’s a damn shitty feeling, Steve, ‘specially ‘cause I got no idea what I’m gonna wake up to.”

“I’m going to wake up strapped to a table, or to Reinhardt training me to feel _relieved_ when I choose evil, or to a needle pumping me full of poison, or…” Steve shook his head. He didn’t want to think about the images that haunted his dreams, haunted his waking hours, and judging by the clouding of Bucky’s expression, he didn’t want to think about it, either.

“Yeah. That.” Bucky slapped his hands on to his lap, looked away. Jittery, he hopped to his feet, boots making a loud _clomp_ as they hit the floor, and paced around the bed only to look disappointed and helpless when he reached the wall and could go no farther. “Look, uh, you’re probably sick of seeing my ugly mug every time you open your eyes. I could, uh, give you some privacy. Get you a book. Talk to Pegs about finding you a vat of salt water.” Hearing Bucky say nicknames like _Pegs_ was surreal; he parroted the words as if they were in a foreign language, all the right sounds in a perfect accent but devoid of meaning. Bucky remembered that he’d once been close enough to Peggy to call her by a nickname but none of the sentiment was there. If Peggy hadn’t heard that…she must have realized, must have recognized the difference, and opted to let Bucky think she believed the appearance he was projecting.

Steve managed a wry smile. “You’ll just sit outside the door worrying, won’t you?”

“How’d you—” Bucky snapped his mouth shut. “Probably,” he admitted. His facial expressions contorted, nose scrunching up, mouth compressing to a line, and then he sighed. “You drive me crazy, you know. Literally, utterly nuts. Like…like…you’re the landmine underneath that damn yellow brick road, and every time I come near you I get blown to kingdom come, so far I can’t find my way ho—” He choked on the word, eyes going hard. “No. Not _home_. I _will not_ call anything related to them _home_. And when I’d get back after one of those missions I’d have to explain why you weren’t with me and I _couldn’t_ cause I _didn’t fuckin’ know_. I had _so many chances_ to catch you and I _couldn’t_ , and then…” Bucky shook his head and shuddered. “That’s all the shit I _wish_ I didn’t remembered. Why’s my head filled with _that_ and not, like, puppies? Puppies are a thing, right?”

“Yes, Bucky, puppies are a thing,” Steve confirmed with mock solemnity.

“Steve, I want _puppies_ ,” demanded Bucky.

“Puppies can be arranged.”

“And…and _kittens_.”

“Also can be arranged.”

“And _you_.”

Bucky froze with his mouth hanging open, his apparent shock a perfect mirror to the amazement that Steve felt.

“I’m…I’m gonna go get you a book,” Bucky muttered, turning away. “Everything on board is shit and I can’t remember what you like to read anyway but anything is better than being in here with you. I can’t even _breathe_ when you’re around, and I can’t stop running my damn mouth. There was a lot about being…the way I was, when I was…you know…but I had that whole ‘broody’ thing down to a _science_ and it was awesome and now I’m like…” He set his hand on the wheel that operated the door, and a faint rattle betrayed his hand shaking. “I’m …I’m half _Soldier_ and half _Bucky_ but not actually either and I’m talkin’ too much _again_ and don’t worry I know I’m not saying anything you want to hear and how about a book we’ve got Gone With the Wind in French and Brave New World with half the pages missing and about six copies of Mein Kampf for some fucking reason and some tripe by Sinclair Lewis and the abridged works of Shakespeare in Spanish and a bunch of Steinbeck short stories and—”

“Bucky.”

“Don’t _call_ me that!” Bucky’s shout was over-loud in the confined space. Rounding on Steve, face haggard, Bucky panted and Steve did his best to wait patiently, curling tentacles betraying his disquiet. “I’m _not_ _him_. I don’t know how to get back to _being_ him. I tried – you _saw_ me try! – and damn if I didn’t think I’d pulled it off but of course _you_ saw right through me. Every single fucking time I think I’ve got my equilibrium back, whether it’s cause Hydra fucking _tortured_ me back to ‘baseline’ or because I’ve got a groove going or…or…shit, I don’t even know, it doesn’t matter because five minutes with you fucks it all to hell and back and I’m in freefall again.”

_…my fault…_

Nausea twisted Steve’s stomach. “I’m sorry. If you’d rather be elsewhere, no one is making you stay.”

“I don’t _know_! Stop making this about what I want! Stop…stop treating me like I’m worth a damn! You don’t know – you don’t even know – and you lie there with your stupid face and your stupid tentacles and your stupid reasonable voice and I don’t remember much but hell if I don’t remember _just enough_ to know that you should have killed me when you had the chance!”

Unable to find enough words to explain how completely _wrong_ Bucky was, Steve watched him, blinking tears from his eyes. Bucky clearly didn’t remember that this wasn’t a new argument for them.

_…if you’ll have me, Stevie…but geeze, man, you gotta know you can do so much better than a schlub like me._

“You don’t get to make that choice for me.” Steve’s voice was lower now than when he’d first spoken those words, and more heart-sore, but his feelings had grown stronger. “I won’t force you to stick around but don’t run away and pretend it’s for _my_ sake. You’re right, I let you fall, and I’ve regretted it every day since. Give me the chance and I’ll spend a lifetime making it up to you. _That’s_ what I want. But _only_ if you want it.”

“Stop talking to me like…like you’re talking to _him_.” The heat of anger still tinged Bucky’s voice but it was dulled, hollow and defeated. “I can’t be Bucky. That guy…he…he loved you. Right?” There was such desperation in that single word – layer upon layer of fear and uncertainty – and Steve nodded agreement, not trusting himself to speak, not daring to interrupt. “No one who loved you could hurt you the ways I’ve hurt you. You don’t…you don’t even know the _half_ of it, you _can’t_ , ‘cause if you remembered everything…and _I_ don’t remember everything, but I remember enough, I remember so much more than I want to remember.”

“B…what do you want me to call you?”

“It doesn’t matter,” said Bucky, passion fading from his voice, shoulders slumping.

“Will you stay and talk this out with me?” Steve tried to keep his voice neutral. He desperately wanted Bucky to stay, but the longer they spoke, the more convinced Steve became that Bucky would attempt to conform his behavior to whatever he believed Steve’s preferences to be.

_That much power terrifies me._

_I’ll not become his new Hydra. He’s rudderless right now but I can’t be his rudder, he’s got to find that confidence in himself._

The wheel turned in Bucky’s hand, and Steve preemptively prepared for the surge of disappointment to come when Bucky walked out of the room.

“You care about _Bucky_ ,” Bucky muttered. The wheel clunked as it hit the stop, indicating the door was ready to open, but Bucky didn’t push his way into the hall. “I want...I want you to care about _me_.”

“Quit acting like you know me.” The harsh words burst from Steve before he could stop them. Bucky’s grip on the wheel fell away and it spun back to the closed position. Wheeling, he stared at Steve, mouth agape. “You’re right, you’re _not_ Bucky, ‘cause Bucky never treated me as a cardboard cutout. I’m not your paragon, _Soldier_. I’m not your new Hydra head. My name is Steve fucking Rogers and I’m a dumb kid from Brooklyn and I used to get my ass kicked regularly defending lost causes and so believe me, I recognize a lost cause when I see one, and you’re not it. You go on and on about how I don’t see you? What the heck do you think you’re doing? This whole conversation, all you’ve done is take a zillion disconnected fragments you half-remember about me, mashed ‘um together into the semblance of a man, and then shoved that illusion up onto the highest pedestal you could find. Talkin’ about what ‘I deserve.’ Bullshit.

“Here’s a dose of truth for you: for _months_ before I knew you as anything other than ‘the Winter Soldier’ I was obsessed with _you_. It was so bad that Peggy and Alison and even _Margaret_ were making fun of me, sayin’ you were ‘my’ Winter Soldier. I didn’t return to the _Graf Zeppelin_ for documents or to sink the ship, I went back to the _Graf Zeppelin_ for _you_. And I _didn’t know you were Bucky_.”

“You’re serious.”

“Cross my heart and swear on Ma’s _grave_ , I mean every word.”

There was an agonized silence. Steve scarce dared breathe, lest he miss Bucky’s response.

“I believe you,” Bucky said finally. “Every fuckin’ iota of me screams that you’re tellin’ the truth and I don’t know why and I swear after everything Hydra did to me _you_ are going to be the death of me. I trust you, have from the moment I first laid eyes on you, and I got _no clue_ why.”

“Maybe somewhere underneath what Hydra tried to make you, you recognized me?”

Bucky shook his head. “Probably, but that’s not what I meant. The _very_ first time, Steve. I remember…” He shook his head more vehemently. “It doesn’t matter.”

“Of course it matters,” said Steve. “If you don’t want to tell me things because you’re uncomfortable admitting them? Fine, keep your trap shut. But if you don’t want to tell me things because you think I’m not interested? You’re _wrong_ , I’m interested in _you_ , the Winter Soldier, James Buchanan Barnes, and I’ll listen to anything you feel like sharing.”

“You don’t get it,” Bucky muttered,

“Look – you want me? Well, I’m telling you – you’ve got me, and all the puppies and kittens you can lay your hands on, and if you figure out anything else you want, I’ll do what I can to make that happen too.”

“W…?” Bucky glanced over his shoulder, licking his lips nervously. Taking a deep breath, visibly steeling himself, his eyes slipped shut and he whispered, “Why?”

“Because you deserve a chance to find out who you are, without Hydra or SSR or me or _anyone_ influencing you, and I’ll fight to give you that opportunity,” said Steve sincerely.

_But God, I hope you choose me._

Turning, Bucky stared down at Steve. Steve tried to keep his expression open, caring, ingenuous, but it was difficult under Bucky’s scrutiny. The longer Bucky looked at him, looked through him, the more antsy Steve felt. Was his smile genuine enough? Were his eyes sincere? His nose tickled, and he resisted the urge to sneeze. His leg itched. He didn’t even _have_ a leg, but it was definitely itchy. Strain as he might, he couldn’t keep still, and the tips of his tentacles curled around each other, around the poles supporting the cot, one suctioning to the wall.

Bucky broke into a wry grin, and Steve felt like he’d passed a test.

“You know, I think I get it,” said Bucky.

“Get what?”

“Why you’re the one.”

Despite his attempts at impassivity, at keeping his own longing from affecting Bucky’s decision, Steve let out a relieved sigh.

“You’re still _monumentally_ clueless and dangerously idealistic, ‘specially ‘bout me, but…”

Shaking his head, Bucky crossed the couple steps separating him from the edge of the bed, got a knee on the thin mattress, and as Steve watched with growing surprise, Bucky tucked himself alongside Steve on the tiny bed.

“This brings back memories,” said Steve with a smile, tucking himself as close to the other side of the bed as he could. Even so, the cot was not large enough to accommodate two grown men. Steve’s arm dangled off one side; Bucky lay on his side, made himself as narrow as he could, and pressed hot against Steve’s other arm. Only the thin fabric of the blanket separated them.

It was far too much of a barrier.

“Tell me about them?” Bucky suggested, plaintive, hopeful.

“You sure you want me to talk to you about Bucky?” Steve asked.

“I guess…I mean, he _is_ me. Deny it all I want – it’s the truth, whether I like it or not.”

“Okay…I’ll tell you about Bucky – about Bucky and me – on one condition.”

“Negotiating, huh? Always did drive a hard bargain, Steve…”

“Take it or leave it,” Steve agreed. “You tell me about the Winter Soldier.”

“I’d ask why you want to know that, but I already know the answer,” said Bucky, rolling his eyes. “Masochist.”

“As long as you keep quiet, all those things you’ve got in your noggin that you’re afraid’ll drive me away when I find out? They’ll keep weighing on you and weighing on you, gettin’ louder and louder even though you never say them,” Steve explained.

“Right, so when you say ‘I don’t need to tell you anything,’ that’s what you really mean? I don’t have to, except that I do cause that’s your condition? Knew things were going too well.”

“You can walk away any time you want,” said Steve. “You kept coming back. You kept sparing me. You stayed in this room while I was unconscious because you were worried about me. You climbed into my bed. You told me you wanted me. And you can have me, but I’ve got a price: honesty. What can I say? Guy’s gotta have standards. Anytime you don’t feel you can give me that? You know where the door is. And you don’t have to tell me _now_ …so long as you commit to tell me _eventually_.”

“Still gotta get Peggy to fill a vat of saltwater for you.” Bucky wrapped an arm over Steve’s chest.

 _Conditions accepted,_ the gesture said, louder than words.

“I watched them torture you and I didn’t do a damn thing to stop it,” whispered Bucky, fingers curling around Steve’s side.

“I watched you fall from the train and I didn’t do a damn thing to find you afterwards,” Steve replied. “We’ve both got mistakes to atone for.”

“Tell me about narrow beds,” Bucky implored. “I don’t remember.”

_But you remember falling, don’t you? And you remember me watching, and you remember Hydra finding you, and you remember my doing nothing._

_You’re angry, right?_

_You should be._

_But it’s okay._

_We can work through it, work through all of this pain and sorrow and loneliness and betrayal,_ together _._

“Right outta high school you landed a gig on the docks, makin’ money on the side boxing,” Steve explained, voice soft, soothing. Wiggling between their close-pressed bodies, he wrapped his fingers around Bucky’s metal arm and was gratified when Bucky reciprocated the touch. “You coulda gotten something better, but you wanted out of your parents’ house, wanted to scrape together enough to get your sisters out, too, and you didn’t want to wait so you took the first job that said they’d have you.”

“ ‘member them,” murmured Bucky, sounding half-asleep. “Becca, Dotty, Ginny…they okay?”

“Last I heard, yeah, but last I heard was last you heard, so take it for what it’s worth – like a year and a half ago,” said Steve.

“More’n I coulda said…”

“So you rented this damn closet on Water Street, next to a mechanic who’d hire you under the table to do odd jobs, and rather’n waste money on furniture, you cobbled together any old shit. You dumpster dived this cracked bed frame, strung it using ratty, stinking, oil-soaked burlap you grabbed from work, and called it a damn bed. First time you lay on it, it collapsed. ‘s why you spent so much time at my place. So anyway, once, you…”

Steve kept talking, reveling in the tension ebbing from Bucky’s body, the slow, even press of Bucky’s chest against Steve’s side as Bucky relaxed into sleep.

_I think…_

_I think maybe…_

_We’re gonna be alright._


	21. Chapter 21

_Warm…_

_...mmm…that’s nice…_

_…so warm…_

_…been so long…_

_…wait. Warm? That can’t be right._

Steve started awake and tried to sit up only to have his momentum arrested by weight over his stomach. Several panting, frightened breaths later, his vision cleared enough to show him his surroundings. Dim light cast ochre shadows over the room, made Bucky’s skin look jaundiced and his eyes dark pits as he blinked awake, expression as alarmed as Steve felt. With a fearful exclamation, Bucky rolled, got a hand under him and tumbled off the cot. A moment later his head popped into view, his expression sheepish.

“You good, Steve?”

“You’re really here – still here,” Steve breathed. “I’m fantastic.” Bucky broke into a pleased smile. “Better when you’re next to me, though.”

“That’s okay?”

“That’s so okay. Ya know what would be even better?” Steve lifted the edge of his blanket and gestured invitation with a tentacle. Bucky’s smile grew wider, lighting his eyes, youthening him, easing the strain that years of war and toil and duress had etched as lines around Bucky’s eyes, forehead and mouth.

Movements slow, shy, Bucky clambered up beside Steve, let Steve tuck the blanket over him, and reached out, hesitantly trailing his fingers over Steve’s chest. Bandages crisscrossed Steve’s skin, but Bucky sought out bare skin, skimmed over it like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to touch. Reaching over, Steve laid his hand over Bucky’s, encouraging more confident touch, and pivoted onto his side, bringing them face to face.

“Heya, Stevie,” murmured Bucky.

“Hi, Buck,” Steve smiled.

_I want to touch him…want to kiss him…I should ask first, but…_

Bucky’s hand curled around Steve’s back, gently pulled their bodies closer together.

“Can’t remember the last time someone touched me so soft…” Steve lied. He remembered _exactly_ the last time someone had treated him so kindly. It had been Bucky, and it had been a week before the attack on Zola’s train. After Bucky fell, he and Peggy stopped being intimate. Steve loved Peggy, and if they’d had more time…

…but they hadn’t, and Bucky had been gone, and then Steve confronted Schmidt, and plummeted into the Arctic, and Hydra captured him, and…

“Can’t remember the last time I touched someone so soft,” Bucky said, reverent, like a man gone to confession. “I’ll stop if you want.”

“Please, no.” Steve couldn’t keep a desperate catch from his voice. “Kiss me?”

They moved simultaneously, bridging the endless inches that had separated them, and their lips met with a shock of sensation. The Winter Soldier has always seemed assertive, domineering, and Bucky had always been a confident, controlling lover, but now he kissed as uncertainly as he touched, the merest brush of flesh on flesh. Excitement dissipated through Steve’s skin, down his neck, along his chest, amplified the peaceful glow that Bucky’s touches left in their wake. Hoping to encourage Bucky, Steve wrapped an arm around Bucky’s back, nervously threaded tentacles between and about his legs, urged Bucky to meet him chest-to-chest, and brought their mouths together once more. Bucky breathed a vocal, pleased sigh against Steve’s lips and tried to shimmy closer, flicking his tongue against Steve’s mouth.

“If this is a dream, I hope I never wake up,” Bucky whispered, his hot breath blowing into Steve’s mouth. It tasted sweet, fresh, and Steve deepened the kiss, chasing the flavor.

_Super soldier serum: good for what ails ya! Cures bullet wounds, dismemberment, and morning breath!_

Arousal simmered under Steve’s skin, mild yet irresistible. Pleasure was such an alien sensation, kind touch such a dim memory, that his thoughts echoed Bucky’s. He could scarce believe this was real, scarce believe it was Bucky, and he clung to the tangibility of their contact, clung to his _belief_ that this was reality. At least that way, if he woke up in a Hydra cell, he’d have the memory to keep him warm, to keep him sane, to remind him that somewhere in the world, good things happened.

“Givin’ me déjà vu,” Bucky continued. Every time his lips pursed to form a sound, his kissed Steve again, heat growing in Steve’s gut, the fervency of their intimacy growing. “Even when they took everything from me, they _still_ couldn’t take this.”

“Kisses?”

“You,” said Bucky. “You were my mission. They _had_ to let me know you, had to make sure I recognized you. When I lost my memories of every other face, I still remembered yours. Fuck, you’re gorgeous, Steve.”

“Bucky,” Steve groaned, leaning into the kiss.

Pressing his hand hard against Bucky’s back, Steve reveled in the brush of cloth on cloth, cloth on skin, skin on skin, and used splayed fingers, eager tentacles and tentative laps of his tongue to encourage Bucky. Every touch communicated _this is alright, this is good, please don’t stop_ , and he felt the same desperation and desire in Bucky’s responses. Bucky’s tongue lapped hot against his, their saliva intermingling. Bucky’s hand kneaded up Steve’s spine, hard pressure where Steve was unhurt, gentle when he passed over Steve’s bandages, though Steve thought himself mostly healed, couldn’t imagine Bucky’s loving touches would pain him. Bucky’s hips pressed into Steve’s, slotted between the fat heads of two of Steve’s tentacles, seeking friction and heat and greater proximity.

_What are you waiting for? Why are you just lying there? Come on, Bucky – mount me, press me against the mattress, rut until we’re both moaning with the bliss of it, like you always did, like—_

_No. Bucky has changed, and I’ve changed, and if he doesn’t take the lead now…that’s okay._

With tentacles to help Steve keep his balance, it was easy to shift, little by little, until Bucky was beneath him. Their lips never parted, kiss after kiss soft and kind. Twining their fingers together, Steve dragged Bucky’s arms over his head, pressed their bodies close, enveloped Bucky in heat and tentacles. The blanket slipped off Steve’s back and pooled on the floor beside the cot. Every small, pleased sound Bucky made felt like a victory.

Whimper… _I’m doing this to him_ …breathy moan… _I’m allowed to touch him again_ …hitched inhale… _I thought you were dead, but here you are – here we are_ …deep whine… _don’t stop…_

Bucky’s deep inhalations were a vital reminder that, had Bucky wanted to, he could have thrown Steve off him at any time. When their relationship had first shifted to the physical, Bucky had manhandled Steve at will; in Europe, Steve had needed to be constantly aware of his strength and his size, careful even in the throes of passion not to hurt Bucky or Peggy. Now, there was no need for inhibition, no cause for concerns. They both knew, intimately, that Bucky could go toe to toe with Steve. If Bucky was beneath Steve, if Bucky was pinned by Steve, if Steve’s tentacles trailed around Bucky’s body, rubbed against his skin, slid beneath his shirt to tease at the skin, it was because Bucky allowed the contact, wanted the contact, and Steve was thrilled to oblige.

Frissons of pleasure buzzed beneath Steve’s skin, tingled to the tip of every tentacle. Something thin and pungent oozed from each of his cocks, eased the ache that being out of saltwater left, amplified the ache that desire cascaded through him. Bucky’s legs were ensnared, wrapped round and round by thick-coiled lengths, and Steve regretted not removing Bucky’s pants first. Bucky strained against the hold, muscles bunching and tensing, causing Steve’s tentacles to flex; worried, Steve loosened his hold, but Bucky arrested Steve’s movement, interrupting their kiss with a guttural growl of protest.

“Tell me what you want,” breathed Steve. “Tell me what you’re trying to do.”

“Legs…” Bucky snarled. “ ‘round your hips…”

“ ‘kay,” Steve murmured, brushing lips against Bucky’s cheek and the stubbled curve of his chin. “Like this?”

Tentacles manhandled Bucky into position. Steve latched two tentacles to opposite walls to help them keep their balance. One of Bucky’s booted heels rested on the small of Steve’s back, the other interwoven with four tentacles close against Steve’s side. Bucky’s crotch pressed into the smooth underside of Steve’s torso, where his tentacles came together and the lines of suction cups ended. The skin was sensitive, soft, the only break in it the small hole through which Steve expelled waste. The hard contour of Bucky’s cock, distinct from the hardness of his cut abs and muscular thighs, pressed into Steve’s flesh, and Bucky arched against the bed, arched to press his erection against Steve, rutted and panted and gasped, eyes squeezing shut.

“Know it’s…know it’s real…know you’re here…nothin’ in a year felt like this…nothin’ in a year felt _good_ …even…even in…dreams…dreamed about this…dreamed about you…didn’t remember how it felt...but knew it was...knew I wanted you... just like this…”

“ _Just_ like this?” Steve asked as he struggled with the tips of two tentacles to undo the knots in Bucky’s shoe laces.

“ _Yes_.” Bucky nipped Steve’s lip, ground his cock against Steve’s crotch, kicked off his boot. “Just like…” Bucky groaned. “ _Just_ like that, Steve, _fuck_ …”

Unfulfilled arousal flared through Steve, incandescence washing his vision white, and their mouths crashed back together. Desperate for stimulation, so new to sex using his modified body that Steve scarce knew how to find satisfaction, slid two of his cocks beneath Bucky’s shirt to slicken his skin with early release, bundled the other four together and slid them against each other. Their lips came together, separated for a moment so they could breathe, came together again, tongues rubbing, saliva pooling. Raspy noises caught in Bucky’s throat, caught in Steve’s throat, and he couldn’t have said which of them made what sound nor which of them sounded more needy. Bucky’s hands tensed against Steve’s grip, nails and metal digging into the flesh. Every touch, every sound, every wiggle and shimmy and hitch and strain was familiar yet new. After all the crap they’d been each through, apart, together, Steve had found a silver lining: how many people were lucky enough that they got to learn their lover’s body for the first time _twice_?

“Steve!” Bucky gasped.

“Yeah, Buck, I’m—”

“Don’t…”

“I won’t stop!”

“Don’t _go_!” Bucky gritted out. “Don’t leave me!” His hips worked frantically against Steve, muscles tensed from his corded neck to his stretched toes, and God, Steve wanted to be part of the climax Bucky chased. He was so hot he was dizzy, gloriously sweaty after so many months cold, but he couldn’t find release. Self-stimulation and the drag of cock on Bucky’s skin wasn’t enough, wasn’t _nearly_ enough, even with Bucky beneath him and around him.

“Not…not goin’…not goin’ nowhere…” Steve panted, squeezing his eyes shut, pressing his forehead to Bucky’s shoulder. An edge of metal dug into his head, the joint between the cybernetic arm and flesh separated from Steve’s skin by only a flimsy shirt.

 _Need…need…need more, need so much more, please Bucky! Please…_ “Please…” mumbled Steve, helpless, lost, confused.

With a _pop, pop, pop_ of seams tearing and a base groan, Bucky came. His hips jerked, jerked, _jerked_ and then he went limp and still, a beatific smile on his face. Only Steve’s entwined tentacles kept Bucky’s legs from tumbling to his sides, and cool air whooshed into the space where Bucky’s crotch had been pressed to Steve’s seared flesh.

 _At least…at least I know…that_ that _hasn’t changed. Buck still comes emphatically…and it’s stunning to behold..._

A whimper escaped Steve; they’d once had mutual orgasms down to a damn _science_ , practiced so that neither would have to fight through the afterglow to find the energy to get the other off, but now Bucky was done and Steve was still sick with desire. He wanted...

_But no pressure on Bucky…he doesn’t have to…I’ve gotta…gotta…_

It took all of Steve’s willpower to take his tentacles from beneath Bucky’s shirt and gently lower Bucky’s legs to the cot. Steve could swear he felt a wet spot on his skin where semen had soaked through Bucky’s pants, swear he felt the liquid soothing air-scoured flesh like balm on a burn.

_I want…I need…_

The peaceful, content pleasure easing the tension on Bucky’s face was all the reminder Steve needed to put his desires second. He painted a gentle kiss over Bucky’s mouth, delighted in the feel of Bucky’s smile widening beneath his lips, then shifted, releasing Bucky’s hands, giving Bucky what room he could to sprawl over the cot. Instinct had Steve’s cocks yet rubbing against each other, but it wasn’t nearly enough and Steve tried to breathe through his yearning, tried to calm himself enough to still his tentacles. One by one his tentacles went limp, dangling off the side of the bed as he shifted to sit. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his heartbeat loud in his ears, and Steve stared down at Bucky and _wanted_.

 _What_ do _I want? For him to touch me? Kiss me? Suck me? Let me rut between his legs?_

_Let me fill his hole?_

Sensation and imagery came to Steve: Bucky naked beneath him, Bucky’s legs spread wide, ankles held apart by tentacles, Bucky gripping his shoulders, Bucky’s cock heavy and hard and dripping on his belly, one of Steve’s cocks in his ass, a second rubbing at his thigh, a third smearing slick on his perineum, a fourth leaking a trail over his cheek, and the other two waiting with the promise of oily come to ease the way once Steve had filled Bucky once and—

A hand fell on Steve’s back and he startled and shuddered.

“Stevie? You okay?” Bucky sounded like speaking was an effort, his fingers splayed and gently massaging the root of one of Steve’s tentacles. Bucky looked the image of perfection, metal arm draped negligently over his head, tendrils of hair matted to his forehead by sweat, one leg bent and yawning to the side, the other limp and flat, a growing wet spot over the crotch of his pants, and a concerned twist to his lips.

“Fine, I—”

Bucky’s thumb flicked between Steve’s tentacles, and even that minimal touch nearly dragged a groan from Steve; he clamped his mouth shut in an effort to restrain himself.

“That whole ‘no secrets’ thing you were harpin’ on goes both ways,” said Bucky sternly. “You didn’t get off?” Steve shook his head. “ _Can_ you get off?” Steve shrugged. He assumed he could, given the mess he’d made of his sheets a time or two, but he hadn’t intentionally tried to masturbate since the changes to his body. Wet dreams were one thing, but when Steve was awake, he hadn’t taken the time to chase physical pleasure. He had so many more important things to occupy his time.

_Like what?_

“So…how does that work now?”

“Huh?”

Touch left Steve’s back and he shuddered again. Bucky turned to his side, propped his arm beneath him, and reached over with his metal arm. As Steve had dreamed, the fingers were hot, moreso than flesh should be, and the warmth radiated outward as Bucky repeatedly ran a finger down the curve at the base of Steve’s spine.

“Well, ya know...I couldn’t help but notice while I was grinding ‘gainst you, you ain’t exactly got a dick anymore,” said Bucky, an apologetic note in his voice.

_I don’t want to pressure him…_

_…but if he’s_ asking _…_

“I do…” Steve said. Despite his intellectual reluctance, his body was about a thousand percent on board with having Bucky touch him, and his cocks reacted autonomously, disentangling, rising, hovering in the air around Bucky. They were flushed deep red, nearly purple, the tips coated in thin, dark oil. Bucky eyed them but there wasn’t a flicker to his expression to suggest that he recognized what he saw. Steve swallowed.

_Am I going to have to…_

One of the tentacles leaked a glob of pre-come onto Bucky’s shirt; it soaked in, ink diffusing through the cotton to spread a dark, oddly artistic stain. Bucky’s eyes widened.

“You mean…”

“Um. Yeah.”

“ _Six_ of ‘um?”

Mortified, Steve nodded.

“And they’re _tentacles_?”

“Uh huh.”

“Geeze, Steve, the more I learn about this body of yours, the more I realize I really got the shit end of Hydra’s ‘swapping out limbs’ scheme.” Smiling wryly, Bucky shook his head.

“I know it’s weird,” said Steve, feeling increasingly self-conscious under Bucky’s scrutiny. His arousal ebbed.

“Damn right, it’s _awesomely_ weird,” said Bucky. Cheeks flushing, Steve turned away. “Woah, Steve – Stevie – come on, bud, look at me.” Grimacing, Steve glanced Bucky’s way. “I haven’t gotten any sense that you’re ashamed of your body for _your_ sake, so I’m gonna go out on a limb and guess you’re embarrassed about it for my sake?” Steve managed a half-shrug, struggling to continue to meet Bucky’s clear-eyed, happy gaze. Usually, he thought his new body was _awesome_ , but at moments like this…

_…I only ever think I’m a monster, only ever worry that I’m weird, when I consider how other people will react to my appearance…_

_…that’s worth remembering…_

“Don’t worry,” said Bucky, the lightness fading from his tone, replaced with absolute sincerity.

_…you are not a substitute…_

“I’m cool with this.”

_…been in love with you since the day I met you…_

“I’m cool with _you_.”

_…just the way you are, Steve…_

“If this is _you_ , then so be it,” said Bucky. “ ‘til the end of the line means so much more than _just_ in bad times. Through thick and thin, Stevie…”

“In sickness and in health?” asked Steve, smile dawning on his faith.

“Ugh, no, no _matrimony_ ,” Bucky laughed, shaking his head. “Way more fun for two fellas like us to live in sin. ‘sides, I don’t think we can find a judge who’ll wed an assassin and a squid. Not much place for either of us in polite society.” It was a sobering thought, so reflective of what had crossed Steve’s mind moments before, and he looked away from Bucky, vision going out of focus on the opposite wall. The hand fell away from Steve’s back and Steve sighed. “And if I’m completely honest,” Bucky added, an air of mischief to his tone, “which, ya know, you’ve asked me to be…” A finger ran through the slickness coating the end of one of Steve’s tentacles and Steve’s teeth clenched against a surge of ecstasy that shorted out his troubled thoughts. “I dig it.”

“Have I ever told you you’re incorrigible?” Steve laughed, shaking his head.

“Does that make me your saucy wench?” Bucky countered with a wink. “Go ahead, Steve. Debauch me.” Bucky dropped to his back, spread his arms and legs in open invitation, and Steve’s heart might have stopped, it was lodged so far up his throat with anticipation. One of Bucky’s hands yet curled around Steve’s cock and he stroked gently, suggestively, gaze locked on Steve’s eyes.

“You sure…” Steve licked his lips, eyes rolling shut. “You sure you’re not just humoring me? You know...it’s okay. You don’t have to do anything you don’t w—” Bucky’s nail flicked over the sensitive slit at the end of Steve’s dick and Steve stuttered to silence, throat cording around words.

“Trust me,” Bucky commanded, and opened his lips wide.

Steve’s brain short-circuited.

Fortunately, he didn’t need anything resembling cognition to respond to Bucky’s invitation. A heartbeat later Steve had a tentacle against Bucky’s lips, plunged it into his mouth, groaned at the feel of being enveloped by heat and moisture. Bucky clucked an approving sound around him, vibrations trailing through Steve’s flesh, and Steve sprawled over him, letting his body move as it would, letting desire and enthusiasm compensate for what he lacked in confidence and familiarity with himself. A second cock teased at Bucky’s lips, though Bucky’s mouth couldn’t spread far enough to fit two, smearing his face with release. Bucky managed to spread his lips in a grin around the thick, dark pink length in his mouth and damn if Steve didn’t _want_ to try to slip a second dick in his mouth, a third, all six crowding in, spreading his mouth impossibly wide, making an obscene bulge of his throat, radiating bliss as Bucky choked and gagged and struggled to breathe around the bulk.

With a groan, Steve came.

Thick liquid burbled between Bucky’s lips, spilled over his cheeks and chin, coated his flesh with a sheen of grayish-blackish semen. Bucky coughed, splattering come on to his chest, his forehead, his hair. Steve pulled his cock out of the way.

“Salty,” said Bucky hoarsely. “Better’n…better’n…‘fore…” Despite the tears welling in his eyes, Bucky managed a smile. “That all you got?”

_Holy…_

Steve had a second cock between Bucky’s lips before conscious thought could form. Bucky gagged, fingers going tense around the cock he yet held, then went limp and pliant against the cot as Steve thrust desperately into his mouth, chasing another release. It washed over him in a rush, Bucky’s tongue rubbing at him, Bucky’s hand stroking, Bucky’s body hot and willing beneath him, and even as release flooded out of him, streamed over Bucky’s face, left the hair bunched around Bucky’s neck sodden, made a semi-circle down the front of Bucky’s shirt, Steve had a third cock in him.

 _This right here,_ this _is my cause of death. Engrave it on my goddamn tombstone: Here lies Steve Grant Rogers, fucked to death by James Buchanan Barnes._

 _Of all the near-death experiences I’ve had in the last few years, this is by_ far _the best._

Pumping himself desperately against Bucky’s palate, his lips, his tongue, his cheek, his throat, Steve shifted, shifted, until he lay atop Bucky, tentacles writhing with bliss, chest heaving. Bandages and wounds forgotten, pain a distant memory, Steve groaned as Bucky took hold of another tentacle, enveloped another cock in the heat of his metal palm, and jerked Steve off roughly. Once, Steve had thought himself decent at the restraint necessary to last during sex but with Bucky beneath him, Bucky touching him, Bucky clearly _loving_ having Steve gag him on a dick, it was all Steve could do not to explode with bliss. Every stroke felt like a fall, felt like having the life crushed out of him as he tumbled to the ice beneath the _Graf Zeppelin_ , but instead of agony and coldness and anguish enveloping him, Steve was enraptured by heat and ecstasy. His thoughts were awash with the impossibility that he could _feel_ so much, that he could feel so _good_ , and he had no idea if he whispered “don’t stop, don’t stop, don’t stop” over and over again or if his thoughts merely howled the words into the void.

Bucky surged up from the bed, brought their foreheads together, their eyes inches apart, and in those cool blue depths Steve saw affection, care, desire, concern – dare he name it _love_ so soon after their reunion, so soon after their involuntary rebirths as the Winter Soldier and the kraken? A swallow compressed Bucky’s throat around Steve’s cock, increased the friction and pressure, and Steve _shattered_ , spewing into Bucky’s mouth, over both his hands, even his untouched, unsated cock surging with release. Steve’s throat corded around a rapturous scream and he went limp, eyes squeezing shut as he writhed over Bucky for the least stimulation to skin and tentacle.

_Like falling down a chasm…_

_No…_

_Like getting hit by a train…_

_No…_

_Like having an out of body experience…_

_No…_

_Like…_

_Just stop…all those metaphors...off the table..._

“Awesome,” Bucky said, gargling the word so indistinctly that Steve wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. “So, are you gonna tell Pegs we need new sheets, or should I?” Bucky laughed. Steve could scarce draw breath, scarce think, but he opened his mouth, tried a word, got no sound out, tried again. “What’s that, Stevie? All good?”

“If…” Steve licked his lips, worked some moisture over his tongue, made a third attempt. “If she’d’a…moved me…to a vat…like you asked...”

Of everything they’d discussed the past day, of everything they’d experienced together, of everything that had happened to Steve over the course of an agonizing year or more, Bucky’s answering laugh was the most amazing thing Steve had heard.

 _And that right there…_ that’s _the cause of my resurrection._

_I don’t care if I’m Steve Rogers or Captain America or Hydra’s kraken. I don’t care if you’re James Barnes or Bucky or the Winter Soldier._

_We’re together._

_That’s all I ever need, all I ever want, from this day forward._

“I love you,” Steve murmured.

Bucky didn’t respond, but he didn’t flinch away, either, didn’t argue, didn’t contradict.

“Always, Soldier. Always, Buck.”

Bucky’s arms wrapped around Steve, holding him close, squeezing their bodies together, and Steve nuzzled against Bucky’s neck, relishing in the glory of being cherished. Whether Bucky said the words or not, Steve felt the affection in every brush, of every caress, in every exhalation that stirred the long hairs draped down the back of Steve’s neck.

_Perfect._


	22. Chapter 22

At no point had Steve thought to ask Peggy what kind of space she and Falsworth worked out of. He’d assumed they had an office somewhere in Whitehall, someplace tiny, out of the way, ignored, but official.

Confronted with Peggy’s tiny, cluttered apartment, he realized the depth of his misunderstanding of Peggy’s situation.

_I kept trying to tell her she didn’t understand where I was coming from and how my life had changed, when ignored that I was treating her the same way that she was treating me. We both wanted to cling to the past._

The urge to turn to her and apologize was strong but Steve didn’t want to have to give a full explanation of his sentiments in front of everyone. Steve’s apartment in Brooklyn was larger than Peggy’s tiny studio home. One wall was lined with counters and cabinets and served as a kitchen, the adjacent wall home to a bedroom sectioned off with a folding screen, the next wall taken up by a dresser and the front door, and the last wall was a jigsaw of desks serving as an office. A state-of-the-art radio had a desk to itself, and the others were stacked with files, books and papers. Peggy had always worked neatly and preferred to be organized, but in the confines there wasn’t room to keep things orderly.

No wonder she had so often sounded like she was losing her mind; the war had let Peggy spread her wings, and now that it was over she was encaged once more.

_Does she wish the war hadn’t ended? And if she does, how much worse must she feel, reminiscing nostalgically for the cataclysm that cost so many people so much, but happened to give her the opportunity of a lifetime?_

Fitting everyone into the small space was a challenge. Steve and Bucky were side by side, Bucky eying the confines warily as if expecting an attacker to leap out from behind the screen or through the single window leading out to a fire escape. Stark was behind them, staring at the walls but seeming to see nothing, oblivious to Peggy’s plight. Falsworth, Morita and Jones went straight to the chairs crammed around the radio, clearly familiar with the set up and comfortable in the space. The members of the Wrecking Crew made an awkward knot by the door, filling most of the available floor space. To Steve’s amazement, when Stark had offered the former prisoners tickets to anywhere in the world they’d like to go, on him, not a single one had accepted the gift. Heck, even Carlos had chosen to travel to London with them, to the bafflement of his crew. His first mate had tagged along, and though his thick accent and rapid speech meant Steve couldn’t understand a word he said, the man’s confusion and frustration were evident.

Thinking about it now, looking at their troubled expressions as they took in their surroundings, Steve wasn’t sure why he’d been surprised. They’d spent days and weeks and months together, traded war stories, researched Hydra, joked macabrely about anything that came to mind, were inseparable as only those thrown together by the worst of circumstances could be, but no one talked about their expectations for a homecoming. No one spoke fondly of loved ones awaiting their return, of welcoming homes and warm hearths they hoped to reside in once more, of jobs they wished to return to. Such joys were confined to their pasts. For their futures...

...Steve suspected he wasn’t the only one who’d never imagined surviving to leave Siberia.

The door closed loudly behind Sayaana. Of late, she’d developed a limp; as soon as they were in privacy she slumped to the floor, massaging the joint where her metal leg segued to her hip. She and Margaret exchanged a look and Margaret dropped down beside her.

For a prolonged moment, everyone scanned the room, looking for someone to step up, waiting for someone else to speak, and then Peggy filled the void, heels loud on the hardwood as she stepped to the center of the room. She could have touched half the people present simply by lifting her arms.

“Now what?” she asked, confident and strong. Head held high, expression proud, she looked for any eye willing to meet hers. Stark’s was the first, after several Crew members looked away, and he gave her a suave smile.

“Logistically, I’ve got you covered,” he said. “Had my people on it as soon as we docked. Booked an entire floor of the Savoy, expense account for room service, the works. Anyone who wants a tailor – we’ve got three on call – figured folks’d like some real clothes after...however long you’ve been wearing...whatever that garbage is. Taxis on command, Champagne on ice, theater tickets available at the concierge, you name it, you can have it, no expense spared.” Stark beamed at the Wrecking Crew members and seemed nonplussed when none reciprocated his enthusiasm. “Guess it’s an acquired taste.”

“What about the other matter we discussed?” Peggy said pointedly. Stark started as if she’d caught him with his hand in the cookie jar, a strangely juvenile cringe of guilt on a grown man.

 _Then again...I’ve_ met _Howard Stark, I should’ve know better than to think him an adult in anything other than appearance._

“You sure...?” Stark gestured to the Crew. Margaret and Sayaana continued to ignore him, though Margaret’s lips moved rapidly, suggesting she’d taken on the task of communicating Stark’s words to Sayaana in Russian. Lydia eyed Stark with suspicion, Alison looked like she wanted to bite his hand off, Carlos spoke quietly in rapid Spanish to the first mate, Alfons kept shooting inexplicable desperate looks toward Bucky, and Takumi and Mayeso managed a show of professionalism as they hastily translated the conversation for the benefit of the others.

“What happened to the _Graf Zeppelin_?” interjected Bucky.

“Agent Carter?” Stark shot her a hopeful look.

Peggy muttered under her breath; in the confined space most of her words were audible, “...do his job...swoop in, take all the credit and...” She shook her grumbling away, coiffed curls bouncing about her face. Even after days aboard ship, even during the fight on the decks of the _Graf Zeppelin_ , she was nothing short of perfect, clean, make up done, hair styled, clothing immaculate.

_She’s always been like that. Another example of how incredibly hard she continually works, the extra effort she puts in that I never appreciated before._

“The _Graf Zeppelin_ is in international waters off the coast, the Hydra prisoners still confined aboard,” she explained. She had none of Stark’s hesitance, none of his urbanity, and her confidence and certainty drew every eye in the room toward her, faces respectful, attentive, interested, engaged. “Captain Philips of the Strategic Scientific Reserve assumed command of the vessel upon our arrival in Spithead, with the help of Sergeant Dugan and a joint US-British task force. What they don’t know is that before they arrived, Stark and myself had all the important documents and the mobile technology transferred to the _USS Natchez_.”

“Carter...” Stark said warningly.

“And _no_ ,” Peggy said, not skipping a beat, “I will _not_ call the frigate the _Good Ship Howie-Pop_ , no matter how many times you ask, Howard.”

“Fine,” Stark pouted.

“Steve, your shield is on the _Natchez_ , too.”

“You have a plan,” said Steve.

“I have a plan,” she confirmed, smiling. “Hopefully, _we_ have a plan. In this room, we have every surviving, sane person to have been administered Dr. Erskine’s formula and the derivatives Hydra synthesized in an attempt to replicate it. One superhuman on the battlefields of Europe, supported by a top-notch crew, was invaluable in defeating the Nazis. There are _fourteen_ of you now; even if not all of you wish to sign on – which is your prerogative, no one will force you—”

“Colonel Philips _might_ try to force you,” Stark interjected.

“—and we will _stop him_ ,” said Peggy firmly, staring Stark down. He gave her a wide grin and a single decisive nod.

“ ‘Course we will!” Stark said. “You kidding? This is the most fun I’ve had since the Expo. Things got mighty dull during the war.” Nearly as one, everyone in the room turned to stare incredulity at him, the only people lagging behind those awaiting translations.

“So, uh, pardon me – we southern types, kinda slow, ya know – what _exactly_ you askin’ us to sign on for?” asked Alison.

“The Strategic Homeland Intervention, Enforcement, and Logistics Division.”

“The what?” asked Lydia.

“There any sense in all that word salad?” Alison added, rolling her eyes in Steve’s direction. “And here I thought she was the reasonable one. After my years workin’ for Uncle Sam you’d think I’d know better.”

“No – give it a chance, the acronym is real catchy,” said Stark. He held up his hands, spread his fingers wide, pantomiming lights flashing on, fireworks popping in the night, and said, “S.H.I.E.L.D” with the air of showmanship Steve recalled from the Stark Expo.

_Yeah, that was about thirty seconds before the flying car stopped working._

_But the flying car_ did _work for thirty whole seconds._

_Even when he’s being tone deaf, Stark’s captivating._

“So what is this Strategic Homeland mumbo-jumbo?” asked Jones. Steve glanced at his friend, surprised, but judging by the avid expressions on Morita and Jones’ faces, this was as new to them as it was to Steve, Bucky and the Crew. Only Falsworth seemed disengaged, sorting through a file he’d retrieved from Peggy’s desk, papers rustling.

“S.H.I.E.L.D. is the new SSR,” Peggy clarified for the others.

“We know about SSR,” said Lydia. “Steve told us.”

“Fight Nazis,” Carlos agreed, nodding. “Fight Hydra.”

“For months, Colonel Philips has been negotiating with the world governments,” Peggy continued. “Publicly, Truman tasked him with helping create a military structure as part the United Nations Charter, but confidentially, his goal was to get the foreign governments on board with making a mirror organization. Whereas the U.N. is an intergovernmental organization founded to maintain international order and cooperation, we envisioned S.H.I.E.L.D. as an intergovernmental extra-military force primarily concerned with intelligence gathering and sharing, with an eye toward preventing the growth of organizations like Hydra and the Nazi Party in the future. The idea was that the U.N. was the olive branch, extended in peace and amity, and S.H.I.E.L.D. would be the bazooka waiting in the wings, the fist ready to punch, a threat hanging over the heads of those who shun peace.”

“Excuse…what is…you say…you-enn?” asked Takumi. He’d picked up a little English over the months but his accent was thick, his comprehension better than his ability to speak, and he mostly followed English conversations by listening to Margaret’s Russian translations.

“Don’t think the details matter,” Alison said. “Key is, Carter here says the U.N. exists, and S.H.I.E.L.D. don’t, which still begs the question: what’s all this got to do with us?”

“Colonel Philips failed to convince the governments of the need to accompany ‘walk softly’ with ‘a big stick,’” Peggy conceded.

“You told me everyone was crazy for peace and wouldn’t consider the threats on the horizon,” said Steve. “This is what you meant?” Peggy nodded.

“Considering that everything I know about happenings in the world during last four years would fit in a thimble, let me see if I’ve got this straight,” said Lydia. “The war ended last September.” There was no indication she meant the statement as a question, but she paused and didn’t continue until Peggy got the hint and confirmed Lydia’s words with another nod. “Hitler’s dead, Germany surrendered unconditionally, Japan’s done too, and _how_ many people are dead?”

“No one knows for sure but our low estimates of civilian and military casualties exceed fifty million people worldwide,” said Jones grimly. Margaret’s translation sounded choked, and Sayaana shook her head in denial. “It could be double that. We’ll probably never know.”

“So, yes, that’s inconceivably awful,” Lydia said, making an effort to sound detached. “I can see why everyone wants to pretend the fighting is over forever, but Hydra is still operating, and all the available evidence suggests they’re doing so with Stalin’s blessing. Does anyone need more proof than our existence that this war isn’t done?”

“I hope they won’t,” said Peggy sincerely. “ _That’s_ what I’m hoping to accomplish – what I’m hoping you all will be able to help me accomplish. We’ve turned over the _Graf Zeppelin_ but we’ve got reams of critical documents, a couple dozen innovative Hydra discoveries including that energy force weapon that Reinhardt fired at Steve, and the Tesseract. And we’ve got _you_ , all of you, and everything you know about Hydra and Stalin’s involvement based on your time as prisoners, your work in Siberia, and your analyses of the seized intelligence. Confronted with Sayaana’s leg and Bucky’s arm, Hydra technology emblazoned with the red star, Truman, Gouin, King, Attlee, Chifley, Mao – the Allies will _have_ to acknowledge that this is a serious situation that requires vigorous confrontation. I’ll take this to the King himself if I must. Without you...I’ve been beating my head against the brick wall of bureaucracy for the past year, but if even some of you will help me? We can change the world.”

“So…what you’re saying is…” Alison’s grin showed yellowed teeth. “Y’all took everything but the kitchen sink off the _G.Z._ and left your Colonel friend roosting on an empty nest, and now you want to turn ‘round and say, ‘we’ve got everything useful and if y’all want a piece of this pie you’re gonna have to play ball with us?’”

“I think what Alison’s getting at with her mixed metaphor is…are you proposing to _blackmail_ the Allied governments into funding this S.H.I.E.L.D. of yours?” asked Margaret.

“It’s not _exactly_ blackmail.” There was only the lightest overtone of defensiveness in Peggy’s tone. She sounded pragmatic, and she smirked. “Sometimes, men have to be bullied into doing what’s best for them—”

“Amen!”

“—and they _know_ this intelligence is crucial, and not just because of Stalin, not just because of Hydra. The existence of the Soviet Atomic Bomb project is the worst kept secret in the world. The war might be over and peace now front and center but everyone is scrambling to develop and perfect the next big weapon, not necessarily to use it, but to ensure that the _other_ ‘side’ doesn’t develop it and use it _first_. As far as I can tell looking through the documents you’ve sent to date, Hydra _is_ Stalin’s Research and Development team. We’ve got everything we need to tie them together, and all the results of Hydra’s scientific pursuits. If the US and Britain want the information, they’ll _have_ to fund us.”

“I like it,” said Alison.

“I don’t,” said Lydia.

“It doesn’t seem patriotic,” Margaret added, frowning.

“Excuse…what is…atomic bomb?” asked Takumi.

“Christ,” muttered Stark. “What a mess.”

Multiple conversations broke out simultaneously, chaotic in the confines of Peggy’s apartment, and Steve let the noise wash over him. Peggy’s explanation had left Steve with as many questions as she’d answered. As he’d suspected, there’d been much she’d been reticent to say over the airwaves while he was still in Siberia, though he was at a loss why her apparently unsecured apartment in devastated Whitechapel seemed safer for confidential disclosures. Stark, Morita, and Jones didn’t question her decision to have the sensitive conversation here, so he supposed it must be better protected than the rickety building construction and flimsy walls suggested.

Steve didn’t want to listen to Stark attempting to explain the Manhattan Project to Takumi in broken Japanese. He didn’t want to listen to Sayaana’s insistence that Stalin’s treatment of her people _alone_ should constitute grounds for destroying his regime. He didn’t want to listen to Peggy’s resigned role call of all the ways the world governments insisted on pretending that the Hydra threat didn’t exist. She was right; confronted with Bucky and Sayaana, Margaret’s impossible eye, Mayeso’s indefatigability, and of course Steve’s tentacles, they’d _have_ to see that there were more things in heaven and earth than were dreamt of in their narrow-minded philosophies. Steve would have thought the glowing brick of the Tesseract would have been proof enough of that, that Dr. Erskine’s success and Steve’s transformation would have been a wake-up call, but if they needed more proof, the Wrecking Crew would bring more proof.

_…but is it really my job to open their eyes and make Truman and the others see reason?_

_Who else’s job would it be, Steve?_

The division in Steve’s thoughts was so abrupt, so jarring, that he started. He’d not been subjected to the arguments and set downs caused by his divided priorities since he and Bucky had reached an understanding. The last day on _Howie-Pop_ , his thoughts had been blissfully peaceful, blissfully at ease, blissfully quiet, blissfully united _._

_Though Peggy’s right – it’s a terrible name for a ship. Especially since every time I hear it, I imagine Shirley Temple trying to look serious and singing with her curls bouncing around her head._

_Stop trying to change the subject, Steve. The right course of action here is obvious. Follow Peggy and Stark’s lead. Confront the world leaders. Make them see that Hydra is real, and Stalin is backing them, and that if we do nothing, the same hate as killed fifty_ million _people over the past decade will fester and grow until it’s nigh-unstoppable_ again _, and we’ll be back where we were, except the weapons of mass destruction will be even more terrible and even more people will die._

_If they see the documents, they’ll know._

_If they see Hydra’s technological innovations, they’ll know._

_If they see Sayaana…Bucky…_

_…if they see_ me _they’ll have to acknowledge that Hydra exists and is dangerous to_ everyone _._

_…but I don’t want them to see me…_

_…quit complaining and think of the greater good, Steve!_

Steve sighed.

 _Haven’t I done enough? Haven’t I given enough? Haven’t_ all _of us given enough? It sounds like Alison and Margaret want to keep fighting, like Lydia would maybe prefer not to be involved, like Sayaana wants to go home and fight for her family…_

_…like Takumi just found out his home city has been wiped off the map…he looks like he’s ready to burn the whole world down in vengeance…_

_…I can’t say that I blame him…_

_…but what do_ I _want?_

Warm fingers curled around Steve’s dangling hand, threaded between his fingers, palm coming to rest flush with his, and Steve’s breath caught. Steve glanced from the debating group before him to Bucky, caught Bucky’s reassuring half-smile, and something hot and indefinable unfolded within him.

_It’s not indefinable, Rogers, you Neanderthal._

_It’s_ happiness _._

 _We’ve got a long way to go – so,_ so _far before he’s healed and I’m healed and we’re comfortable in our skin and sanguine about the terrible things we’ve done to others and the terrible things we’ve done to each other…_

 _…but when I consider the path I want to take going forward, why I imagine my ideal yellow brick road, I don’t_ actually _have any doubts. I want to be with Bucky. We were hurt, torn asunder, left cold and alone –_ especially­ _Bucky, who didn’t have Carlos, didn’t have the Crew to offer him succor_ – _but now we’re reunited and we’re on the same page._

_We’re in this together._

_Whatever this is._

_What I_ should _do? Mobilize with the others. Fight Hydra to my last breath. Heck, try to bring down Stalin while we’re at it._

 _But what I_ want _to do?_

_That ocean off the shore of Key West sounds mighty appealing…as long as Bucky is there with me…_

Bucky gave Steve’s hand a gentle squeeze.

_Pssh that squeeze would have pulverized the bones of any normal human’s hand._

_Face it, Rogers, neither of us normal, not any more. None of us are, none of the Crew, none of the Commandos, heck, maybe not even Peggy and Stark. We’ve all seen too much, experienced too much._

“Steve, you’ve been awfully quiet.” Peggy startled Steve from his reflections. At some point, the hubbub of conflicting viewpoints had quieted, and now all eyes turned toward him. “What are you thinking?”

_Heck, who needs Key West? Coney Island – sun, sand, surf, an awesome boardwalk, more rigged carnival games than you can shake a stick at, Nathan’s Hot Dogs with sauerkraut, the chutes at Luna Park…wonder if they’ll let a squid on the Cyclone…I definitely meet the height requirement…_

_Something tells me none of that is what she means…_

“Hydra needs to be destroyed,” said Steve, soft, grim, certain. “Their surviving leaders, starting with Zola, deserve to sit before the Nuremberg tribunal. Every scientist who thinks they can get away with their crimes because they’re knowledge is ‘too valuable?’ Every Nazi leader who managed an escape in the chaos of the final push to Germany? We need to find all of them, catch all of them, expose them for the war criminals they are, and see them tried and sentenced for their crimes against humanity.”

“Easier said than done,” Stark replied, troubled. “Zola and his ilk have powerful friends.”

“Then let’s arrest those powerful friends, too.”

“Steve—”

“No,” Steve snapped. “No negotiating. No understanding. No moving on. No pretending that there’s a ‘good reason’ to shelter the worst of mankind. We know that Hydra infiltrated the Nazi government, know that they seeded laboratories, weapons manufacturers, and the army with their supporters. We know that these double-agents, scattered throughout the Third Reich, and beyond fed secrets back to Schmidt. We know that their efforts were so effective that they were able to get an assassin into the top-secret trial test run of Dr. Erskine’s serum, _while armed_ , and killed him under all of our noses – I mean, not your noses,” Steve gestured to the Crew, “but mine, and Peggy’s, and yours, Howard, and Colonel Philips, and a couple dozen other important, prominent people. Can you _honestly_ tell me with one-hundred percent confidence that someone who defends Zola from a noose isn’t _themselves_ a Hydra agent?”

“Do you know who you’re accusing?” said Peggy, aghast. “The president _himself_ —”

“ _Is not fully acquainted with the situation_ ,” Steve said, implacable, angry despite Bucky running a soothing thumb over the back of his hand. “We’ve got proof that Hydra has infiltrated governments around the world, right?”

“Yes, we do.”

“There’s no half-pulling this trigger,” Bucky said. Surprised gazes turned his way, his first contribution to the conversation since Peggy had begun her explanation. “Hydra’s model is built on recruitment, proselytization, and dissemination. Every single Hydra operative, from Reinhardt at the top all the way down to the lowliest brainwashed dupe, knows their place in the organization and knows what to do in case of emergency. Every single Hydra operative is trained to be, as an individual, as effective as the whole shebang. You know me – and I know better than anyone – even these guys here – what Hydra is capable of, and how widespread their organization is. When Reinhardt sent me to Paris, to New York, to Edinburgh, to conduct operations, I didn’t travel alone, didn’t operate in a void. My efforts were facilitated by double-agents, sympathizers, and card-carrying Hydra agents at every step at the way. I don’t got names – that wasn’t the kind of work we did – so I can’t help root out their agents, but if you’re thinking Hydra is on its last gasp – if your plan is to go to the governments and say, ‘one hard push and they’re done, no pain, no mess, no fuss,’ then oh boy have I got bad news for you...”

“I didn’t think this would be _easy_ ,” fumed Peggy.

“They can’t _really_ mean that whole, ‘cut off one head, two more will grow’ thing,” Stark scoffed.

“Is _no one_ going to talk about how their name is Hydra but their logo is an octopus?” demanded Alison.

“Focus,” Peggy snapped.

“I think the southern lady is on to something,” said Gabe, giving Alison an assessing look. “Askin’ the real questions.”

“Thank you.”

“Damn it, I’ve worked too hard for you to—”

“Peggy,” interrupted Stark gently. “It’s getting late, and I can’t speak for anyone else, but I’m exhausted. This is these kids’ first night of freedom in civilization – if post-blitz London can be called _civilization_ , jury’s still out on that one – in _years_ and we’re keepin’ ‘um locked in this closet. I bet some of them had cells bigger’n this, am I right?” Stark shot his cocky, winning smile at the Crew and got impassive looks back. “Tough crowd. My point is, we’ve dumped a heck of a lot of information on ‘um in a short period of time. My head’s swimming with ‘Hydra this’ and ‘Truman that’ and ‘Steve’s a squid’ and those cots on the _Howie-pop_? Definitely need some revamping. Let’s sleep on it – no, Carter, I know, you’ve been working your ass off and waiting for ages and this is your chance – but can we agree to sleep on it? Talk it over in the morning?”

“Don’t know there’s much to ponder,” Alison shrugged. “If the dame wants to take out Hydra, I’m there with bells on.”

“I’m not a _dame_ ,” Peggy snarled.

“Not yet,” Stark added hastily. “But if we pull this off you may yet get a knighthood outta this mess.” Peggy spluttered and then burst into helpless laughter. “That’s my girl.”

“Woman,” Alison corrected.

“Alison may feel sure of her course of action but I’m not so certain,” said Margaret. “Some time to reflect and consider would be helpful.” Murmurs of assent and dissent circulated among the Crew.

“I don’t think it’s a question of _willingness_ ,” Lydia said. “My reticence relates to _scope_. If your plan for this S.H.I.E.L.D. thing doesn’t involve ferreting out Hydra agents, arresting and trying them no matter how low or how high they are placed, then we’ve not got much to talk about.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Nothing is off the table,” Peggy said finally. “Do not misunderstand me: my priority is to see the world safe and to fight anywhere, everywhere, wherever _anyone_ threatens global stability. At this moment, the greatest threat appears to be Hydra, and, by extension, Stalin, but if you join me, I can’t promise that priority won’t change. However, as long as Hydra remains the threat they are today, I will stop at nothing, _nothing_ , to see them wiped off the face of the planet. Ask Howard, ask Steve, ask Bucky, how much deference I think is owed to so-called _important_ men.”

“I see why ya like her, Stevie,” said Alison. “She’s got spunk. Definitely a keeper.”

“And _Ms._ Casey, that goes for women, too. I _will_ leverage the information we seized from Hydra to see S.H.I.E.L.D. made a reality, and I will _not_ see my position in it marginalized because I do excellent make up, have great hair, and am ‘stacked.’ Do you understand?”

Cheeks flushed, Alison lifted a hand to fan herself. “Phew, I—”

“I said, _do you understand_?”

Steve might be the tallest person in the room by stature, but Peggy was an Amazon in heels and bright red lipstick, shoulders back, audacity and pride in every firm line of her face.

_Why did I end up taking that serum? Dr. Erskine should have picked Peggy. She’d have been a remarkable Captain America – Captain Britain? – and she deserved the chance more than any man or woman I’ve ever met._

_The governments aren’t the only ones she’ll whip into shape. She’s had enough lying down and taking whatever crap she’s offered. With Hydra’s data on the_ Natchez _, it’s Peggy’s way or the highway, and that’s as true for all of us in this room as it is for Truman. Heck, she’s even got my shield..._

_What amazes me is that Stark’s going along with it._

_Heck, Stark is encouraging her._

_Good man. I may have underestimated him and sold his virtues short._

“I’m in,” said Lydia.

“I always thought Attlee a push over but I’d put you toe-to-toe with Churchill himself any day,” Margaret said. “I’ll help as well.”

As more voices chimed in to sign on with S.H.I.E.L.D., Peggy went from defiant to aglow. Stark and the Howling Commandos of course were committed; Carlos and his disgruntled first mate were next, and Mayeso, Alfons, Mei Jiang agreed as well. Sayaana hesitated, and Takumi still looked traumatized, shell-shocked by the fate of Hiroshima.

Bucky hadn’t said a word.

But he hadn’t dropped Steve’s hand, either.

“Steve?” said Peggy, breathless with eagerness, turning to him.

“ ‘Bout that...” Steve said. His tentacles coiled with his tension, tips flexing and curling, suction cups making a soft sound as they caught and detached from the floor. “I’m gonna need that night Stark suggested.”

“Oh!”

Seeing Peggy brought up short in her enthusiasm hurt, but Bucky’s sweaty grip spoke to his reticence, and as much as Steve’s sense of duty railed in his head that there was only one reasonable course of action for him to take, he couldn’t fight off the quiet, plaintive voice in his head insisting that he, and especially Bucky, had already given enough.

“Of course,” Peggy said, schooling herself back to professionalism and giving her jacket a tug to adjust it. “I didn’t mean to put you on the spot.”

“It’s alright, Peggy. We’ll talk, okay?”

“Whatever you need is fine with me, Steve,” she said with a fond smile. “Tomorrow, we’ll talk.”

_Whelp, bought myself a whole twelve hours to figure out what to do with the next umpteen years of my life._

_On the one hand, my duty is obvious._

_On the other hand, what I_ want _is equally obvious._

_And for once in my damn life, the two aren’t merely in disagreement, they are literally diametrically opposed._

_I am not going to sleep a wink._

_Blaming this one on you, Rogers._

_Back at you, Steve._

“Tomorrow.”


	23. Chapter 23

“Steve?”

Peggy’s apartment was pitch dark at night, even darker than the bunker where Steve had been trapped with Bucky for a week. The blitz might be five years past but the city remembered, piles of rubble that were once buildings still occasionally broke up the city blocks, and by night London was habitually dark and silent, a now unnecessary but hard-learned safety precaution.

“Are you awake?” Peggy’s voice was so soft that even in the confines of the tiny room, Steve could barely hear her. When everyone else had left, Steve and Bucky had, at Peggy’s suggestion, stayed the evening. In his life, Steve had enjoyed the dubious pleasure of many an awkward meal. He’d sat through multiple dinners at the Barnes household, biting his lip when Mr. Barnes went on the verbal rampage, knowing it was likely to be precursor to a physical rampage that would happen after Steve left, knowing that Bucky would stay and take his father’s abuse because otherwise all that anger would devolve onto his mother and sisters.

Dinner with Peggy had been more awkward than _that_.

To serve the meal, Peggy pulled out one of the desks to serve as a makeshift dining table, and surrounded it by office chairs. Since she’d been away for days, there was little food in the house, and they made do with hastily boiled dried pasta and thin spoiled tomato sauce. Bucky spent the time making light-hearted small talk, the carefree mask an uncomfortable facsimile of those nights with his family. Peggy spent the time obviously biting her tongue against further attempts to convince them to commit to joining S.H.I.E.L.D. Steve spent the time staring at his plate, eating mechanically, wishing he was anywhere else in the world.

_It really was upsettingly similar to dinner with the Barneses, circa 1932._

“Yeah, Pegs,” Steve admitted. “I’m up.”

“Is Bucky?”

Though Bucky was invisible in the darkness, Steve knew by feel that he lay curled on his side, metal left arm tucked beneath him in a way that couldn’t be comfortable, blanket tucked up about his ears. He’d not moved since he settled onto the floor, not moved since Peggy turned the lights out, and Steve had been loath to get close and personal with him when Peggy was in the room. Once, that wouldn’t have been a problem, but judging by the way Peggy’s gaze always focused on Steve’s face, never trailed down Steve’s chest and the grayish-bluish skin of his chest, Steve suspected intimacy between the three of them was off the table.

_Even if she was on board with my new appearance, I’m not sure I’d still…I mean…we’re not the same people we once were, and she doesn’t have the weight of Bucky and my shared experience to hold her to us. Our lives diverged on January 25 th, when Bucky ‘died,’ on March 4th, when I ‘died.’ Yet despite all the evidence of the changes in each of us, some part of me still expects things to go back to how they were._

_Naïve wishful thinking, Steve._

_Reasonable nostalgia confronted with a rapidly changing world, Rogers. It’s only foolhardy if I let it consume me. I’m allowed to look back fondly as long as I don’t dwell, as long as I move forward even as I glance back._

Steve slipped a tentacle beneath the blanket and skimmed it lightly over Bucky’s back. He didn’t stir.

“He’s out cold,” said Steve. “Don’t think he slept well aboard the _Natchez_.”

“‘Out cold,’ Steve?” she asked. “Really?”

“If it helps, this time the pun wasn’t on purpose, but next time it absolutely will be.”

“It _does_ help,” she said with a sigh, tone going serious. “If only as a reminder that beneath…I mean, you’re still _you_ , no matter how you look.”

_Sounds like the same things percolating in my head are simmering in hers. I shouldn’t be surprised; if we hadn’t had a lot in common we’d never have gotten along so well._

“And how do I look to you, Peggy?” asked Steve. It wasn’t a fair question and he couldn’t keep bitterness from his voice. Keeping his tentacle gentle against Bucky’s arm, Steve rose on his other tentacles and shifted over the open floor to where, unless his memory betrayed him, the edge of her shielding bedroom screen was. Only the faintest glow of navy blue contrasted the window with the wall, and there wasn’t the least shadow to show where the screen, the bed, or Peggy were. Soft rustling spoke to his shifting, to her shifting as well, and a glow of warmth in the unheated room named her close to him.

“I’m sorry,” she breathed.

“ ‘Cause if I recall correctly you didn’t go squeamish on me when science turned me from a fifty pound weakling into beefcake.”

Oh, yeah. Steve was bitter.

_Damn it, this what happens when Steve starts getting his way, I get whiny about silly things that don’t matter._

_Yeah, cause repressing everything, bottling up that pain, and pretending everything is hunky-dory works_ so _much better. I’ve fought too hard to retain my humanity to give it up now. Good or bad, fair or unfair, positive or negative, I’m allowed to feel, and I’m allowed to express those feelings. Bitter? Yeah, maybe a little. And you can take all that bitterness and then some and shove it up your tail pipe, Rogers._

“I’m sorry,” she repeated. “Short or tall, lithe or muscular, I was attracted to you. I made no secret of that. But this is different. _You’re_ different. Physically and mentally, you’re not the man I knew. Small or large, _that_ Steve would have signed on to S.H.I.E.L.D. in a heartbeat, both fists flying. And I know we’ve talked about this, I know you’ve told me that you’ve changed, but there’s a world of difference between knowing intellectually that you _must_ look different than I recall, know you _might_ react differently than I expect, and seeing how you’ve changed first hand. The tentacles, the gills, the webbing and skin flaps, the hue of your skin…those are weird, and yes, I’ll admit I find them off-putting. I won’t – I _can’t_ pretend nothing has changed. But that’s not what concerns me most.”

“A few bumps and bruises always seemed a small price to pay to do the right thing,” said Steve. “If that put me in the thick of the fight, great, and if I lost – well, at least I’d _fought_. Looking in the mirror, I saw a scrawny schmuck with hardly a friend in the world. It was too damn easy to be hard on myself, to put myself down, but I was _proud_ that I stood up for myself, proud that I stood up for others, and that pride substituted for what I lacked in self-esteem. And that…that worked _great_ , on the streets of Brooklyn, at Lehigh, in Europe, it was _fantastic_ …until it wasn’t. Pegs, I can’t describe how it felt to be strapped to a gurney and tortured until I was ready to talk, tortured until I was ready to do _anything_ to make it stop, only to have there be _nothing_ I could do. Hydra didn’t want information, didn’t want confessions, and they weren’t even trying to turn me, not yet. I couldn’t fight back, I couldn’t resist – there was nothing to punch, nothing to take pride in. They broke me over and over again and they didn’t even _care_. I’d have given up every secret I knew but they never asked me a single question. I was an object to them, an asset to be exploited…” Steve’s focus reverted to Bucky and Steve’s single soothing tentacle, but Bucky didn’t react. “There was no fighting back, and there was no one capable of fighting for me, and day by day I lost myself. I had to find _something_ to hold on to.”

Peggy barked a cynical laugh, bit off a second to silence. “So after a lifetime of throwing yourself headlong into losing fights it took _actually_ losing, _profoundly_ losing, to teach you self-preservation? If Reinhardt wasn’t dead I’d send him a fruit basket as thanks.”

“Really? _That’s_ your takeaway?”

“It’d be rigged to explode,” Peggy clarified apologetically. “Why pass up the opportunity?”

“No less than I’d expect.”

There was a long pause, then Peggy sighed. “I’d love your help, Steve, of course…but if you decide not to join S.H.I.E.L.D., I’ll support you. God knows you’ve earned a rest, and if you _want_ one…”

“I don’t know what I want,” Steve admitted.

“Still seem pretty hung up on Bucky…”

“Pegs...”

“I feel oddly vindicated,” she continued thoughtfully. “When I accused you of staying in Siberia to chase Bucky’s ghost I had no idea I was _right_. Prescient, really. How did you _not_ recognize him?”

“Bucky’s dead,” said Steve by rote. “He _was_ dead. You of all people should get that…I _had_ to…and, I mean, he was wearing a mask…” He trailed off to an embarrassed mumble. Peggy was right, Steve _should_ have recognized the Winter Soldier as Bucky, yet he hadn’t.

_How much sooner could I have rescued him, if I’d realized?_

_Come on, Steve, am I really saying I’d have fought that much harder, pushed that much more, risked everything, if I’d realized Bucky was the Winter Soldier?_

_Yeah, Rogers, that’s exactly what I’m saying, and it’s absolutely true._

_I should have seen that it was him._

“Funny choice of tense,” she said.

“Huh?”

“Bucky _is_ dead, isn’t he?” said Peggy.

“No, he’s—”

“Stop it, Steve,” Peggy scoffed. “He might fool Stark and the Commandos, and your merry band of misfits didn’t know him before, but I _cannot_ believe he’s got you fooled, and I can’t believe you think his behavior would take me in. He’s got a good act – says all the right things, laughs at all the right times – but I’ve stared into Bucky’s eyes when he was happy, when he was sad, when he was scared, when he climaxed, dozens of times over the years, and that man lying there? He may look like Bucky, he might – though I’m far from convinced on this count – remember being Bucky, but he is _not_ Bucky.”

“He’s going to be so disappointed, he thought he had you convinced,” murmured Steve.

“So you do know – and apparently you’ve talked with him about it?” asked Peggy, incredulously. “And you didn’t think to tell me anything? After all Bucky’s talk of espionage and Hydra infiltrators and sleeper-agents, aren’t you worried? Should I…” She took a deep breath. “Should I be suspicious of you, too, Steve?”

“If I was a brainwashed sleeper agent, I’d hardly know it – or confess it if I did,” Steve said wryly.

“Do you trust…whoever he is?” she demanded.

“Yes.”

“ _Why_?”

“Because he is Bucky, yet he’s not, just like I’m Steve, yet I’m not, and – in all honesty – you’re Peggy, yet you’re not. We’ve all been to our personal version of hell – all been rendered helpless – and we all fought our ways back out. Yeah, there’s a difference of magnitude,” Steve cut Peggy off as she started to interject with a protest, “but I learned young: what’s hard for someone is hard for them, and it doesn’t matter worth a damn if someone else would find it easy or if someone else has got it worse. If all three of us were starving, and you got two beans, and I got one, and Buck got none, we’d still all be starving. So, sure, dealing with bureaucracy here and in the US? Maybe not one-hundred-percent interchangeable with being tortured by Hydra, but the gist is the same. And as terrible as what I went through was by contrast with what you’ve been dealing with, what Bucky experienced was much worse again. Hydra spent more than a year disassembling his personality, his sense of self, attacking the essence of his personhood. I can make the barest guess what it was like because they started to do the same to me, but I escaped before they got far, whereas with him they _succeeded_. Heck, they broke him to the point where he didn’t even _question_ his orders to assassinate Dernier, and he made a good faith effort to kill me.”

“Exactly! So why…?”

“You didn’t see him then…didn’t see him as ‘the Winter Soldier,’” Steve explained. “He was…implacable. Hard. Inhuman. He didn’t talk, didn’t react when I talked. I wouldn’t have even realized he was savable but that he made a mistake, kept making the _same_ mistake, and it made no sense.”

“What mistake?”

“He didn’t kill me.”

“ _That’s_ your proof he’s not a Hydra spy?” said Peggy, incredulity making her whispers ridiculous. “I knew you were idealistic and naïve but that’s borderline delusional, Steve. He could be playing you, playing all of us! I understand that Bucky is your exception for every rule but I thought you had _some_ reason to believe in him beyond ‘well, it’s Bucky.’”

“You’re putting this on me?” Steve met her surprise with acid. “Peggy, I was _unconscious_ when you brought him to the _USS Natchez_ , so don’t pretend I convinced you to bring him into your secret headquarters against your will. You and Stark and whoever else was with you made that call on your own.”

“You can’t save everybody!”

“Are we really having this same argument? I thought I’d convinced you months ago that trying to rehabilitate the former Hydra prisoners was worth the risk and the sacrifice.”

“There’s a difference between rehabilitation and giving them free access to our operations!”

“Face it, you want to believe he’s healable too, otherwise you’d never have brought him on board, never have let him stay with me, never have brought him to this meeting today,” snapped Steve. “Don’t pretend that I duped you, or that he did. We all remember what happened on the decks of the _Graf Zeppelin_ and you brought him on to the _Natchez_ anyway. The series of decisions that brought him to be asleep on your floor are all on you.”

“Ain’t no one asleep on anyone’s floor at this point,” groaned Bucky. “Christ, you two are loud. What gives?”

“Yeah, Peggy – what gives?” Steve asked.

“Bucky…” Peggy sighed. “Hell.” There was a clatter, a rustle, and then Peggy bumped into Steve. “Damn it, Steve!” Two tentacles sprang up to catch her before she landed on her face, and he shifted aside so she could get by.

“Sorry,” he muttered. Her skin tasted of soap and perfume, and his tentacles shivered when she flinched at the contact. The urge to release her and let go was strong.

_Remember, Rogers? Back in the real world now. Stark averts his eyes, and none of the Commandos have said more than a few words to me since I woke up. Only the Crew looks at me like I’m normal, and only they and Bucky don’t react with disgust when I touch them._

“I’m fine,” she snapped, and Steve let her go.

Soft bumps and murmured irritation followed her as she made her way across the room. Dark shadows fell across the window, blackout curtains blocking out even that faint light, and then more small noises indicated that Peggy had crossed the room once more. A single lamp buzzed to life, casting faint light and long shadows. Peggy’s eyes were dark and tired. Bucky grumbled something under his breath, brushed Steve’s tentacle aside, and scooted into a cross-legged position.

“Bucky, I know you’re lying about being back to normal, and I don’t trust you as far as I could throw this lamp,” said Peggy bluntly.

“Wow, you trust me a whole – what, ten feet? Maybe twenty? That’s honestly more than I expected,” Bucky replied with a laugh.

“Bucky…” Peggy repeated, glowering.

“You shouldn’t trust me.” Bucky transitioned to solemnity instantly. “What they did to me...Steve, remember when your ma used to make stew, when she couldn’t afford ice?”

“All too well,” said Steve.

“Well, I don’t,” Peggy said grumpily.

“Sarah’s stew...” Judging by Bucky’s expression, he remembered ma’s last-ditch cooking solutions with more nostalgia than Steve did. “Mrs. Rogers was amazing, she’d take _everything_ from the icebox, not sparing a glance for what was what, throw it all in this Dutch oven that was older’n she was, put it over whatever heat source she could find – she used the radiator once – grab this _enormous_ wooden spoon, stir it all together and let it simmer until it was edible.”

“Generally at least half the ingredients were on the wrong side of spoiled.”

“And the other half were worse,” agreed Bucky with a broad grin. “God, I dreaded soup days.”

“Didn’t see you complaining much at the time, she fed you as much as you wanted!”

“It was food,” said Bucky, “and more than we had at my house, so you bet your bottom dollar I ate every bite.”

“While I always find stories about your difficult childhoods in New York intriguing cultural studies, I fail to understand the relevance of this particular anecdote,” Peggy said. She sounded a lot like ma’s soup had tasted: tart enough to peel the paint off the walls.

“That’s what Hydra did to my brain.” Bucky pulled another split-second transition from acting like his familiar self to seriousness. “Gathered up every fragment of my personality they could find, dumped everything into a melting pot, and took a sledgehammer to it. I guess Mrs. Rogers’ wooden spoon wasn’t available. I got holes in my memory you could drive a train through. Some stuff is so damn clear – like the taste of that damn stew – but when I try to actually remember eating it...” Bucky reached out with a hand as if trying to snatch something from air, turned his fist over, opened his fingers, and revealed a whole lot of nothing. “When they put my pieces back together again they discarded everything they didn’t think they needed, like my memories, and my compassion, and my sense of self, except they didn’t have a damn clue what they were doing and half-assed the whole kit-and-caboodle so now I’m left trying to sort through this junk shop repair job they did on my brain. Who knows what kinda booby traps they left?”

Broken memories of the fight in the conning tower came to Steve. Bucky had been at his side, fighting with him, fighting for him, and then Reinhardt had said...something like...

“Gruzvy...vagon...”

Bucky’s fingers clenched around air, his jaw went stiff, and an uneasy shiver passed through his head, made the muscles of his neck bulge, made his shirt sway. Bucky closed his eyes, turned away, and bit his lip.

“Steve...?” asked Peggy, concerned.

“When Reinhardt said that to you, you went all Soldier on me again,” Steve said.

“Who the hell taught you Russian?” Bucky muttered. “Your pronunciation stinks. Thank fricken God. I don’t know – don’t _wanna_ know – what’d happen if someone other than Reinhardt said that to me. Just hearing it said wrong makes me want to hurl. It’s ‘gruzovoy vagon,’ and was one of a dozen ‘activation’ phrases Reinhardt had for me, and don’t ask me what the others are because I’m _literally_ incapable of saying.”

“‘Freight car?’” Peggy frowned. “Why would...?”

 _Aw, hell. Every time I think somehow what happened to Bucky_ wasn’t _my fault I get whacked in the face again with how very much I am to blame._

“Can’t think of a single reason, Pegs?” asked Steve.

“What happened on Zola’s train wasn’t your fault,” she said sternly.

“Really? Cause it sure feels like it’s my damn fault. I—”

“That’s just bullshit, Steve,” Bucky interrupted. “Tell ya truthfully...I can’t remember worth a damn what happened on that train. I woke up with my arm mangled to hell and my legs near frozen off, and then it all goes blank again ‘til I came to in one of those fucking Hydra labs, Reinhardt looking at me like I was gum stuck to the bottom of his shoe as he took notes on that damn clipboard of his, and my hand was like this.” He lifted the metal arm and let it fall limp at his side. “But I don’t need to remember to know that _nothing_ that happened to me from the day I enlisted to now, from when those assholes captured me at Azzano, through holding me in Austria, and onto everything that happened after the train shenanigans – _none_ of it was your fault, Stevie. Hydra did it. Hydra did _all_ of it. So unless you got something to tell me about secret allegiances and whatnot...?” Steve shook his head. “Didn’t think so. You’ve always tried to shoulder the world’s problems. You’re a damn martyr, Steve, which is all fine and dandy up until the point it makes you feel guilty over dumb shit that wasn’t your fault. That back of yours looks sturdier than it used to be but ya still can’t carry _all_ the blame. At some point you’re gonna have to apportion it out where it belongs or you’re gonna break.”

“You’re right, Steve, he’s definitely not the same Bucky, but I like him this way,” said Peggy, breaking into a smile. “He doesn’t put up with your ‘too good and pure for this world’ act; all the _old_ Bucky used to do was treat you like you were so fragile that you might shatter if he looked at you crossways. Definitely an improvement. And bizarrely more honest than I remember him being before.”

“Thank you?” Bucky managed a grin that crinkled his eyes to slits.

“You’re welcome.”

“How did this become about _my_ personality deficiencies?” Steve complained.

“It became about your personality deficiencies the moment you made Bucky’s tragedy about _your_ failures,” Peggy said.

“That’s...that’s actually a fair point,” conceded Steve with a sigh. “I’ll try to do better about not jumping on every grenade that happens to fall in my path, just the ones that are specifically aimed at me.”

“Well, that was a non-apology if I ever heard one,” Peggy grumbled.

_She’s right, you know._

“I’m sorry,” said Steve. He caught Peggy’s gaze, held it for a few seconds, turned to Bucky, did the same. They both stared at him and his heart ached for everything that had happened to both of them. “Thank you for making it clear to me that my habit of taking the blame upon myself is a way of turning a situation that has little to do with me, taking a history where all sympathy should devolve on your shoulders, and making it about my...my heartache, my _sense_ of accountability my...my...man-pain. You’re absolutely right to call me out on my behavior. Bucky, what happened to you isn’t about me any more than what happened to me is about you. Hydra is at fault, and they need to be destroyed. And Peggy, I _am_ sorry, in the general sense of ‘I am sympathetic to your plight,’ sad to see the way your life has gone since the war ended, the way Philips and the rest have treated you. I get frustrated by my inability to do _everything_ , fix _everything_ , fight _every_ battle, win _every_ war, and that frustration leads to a sense of guilt and responsibility, but when I vent that guilt at inappropriate times and in inappropriate ways...and now I’m doing it again. Suffice it to say, I _am_ sorry, I will strive to do better, and please tell me I’m behaving badly when I slip back into bad habits.”

They both blinked at him, and he frowned and looked down at his tentacles.

_I’m gonna start calling that writhing, twisting thing they do when I’m nervous or uncomfortable the “dance of shame.” Look at my damn tentacles, doing the dance of shame again. I was a bad liar to begin with but now? Dance of shame, all the way...never gonna be able to pull a fast one on anyone ever again…_

“What?” he muttered.

 _No, that wasn’t a mutter, it was_ definitely _a whine, Steve._

“Only you two could get tortured, physically altered, and have your minds subverted, and come out...somehow…even _better_ people for it,” said Peggy, shaking her head in wonder. “I’d hate you for it if I didn’t love you so damn much.”

“Not just us,” said Steve, managing a smile, though his tentacles continued to do the dance of shame. “Have you _met_ Margaret?”

“She does seem...” Peggy frowned. “...forceful.”

“They hate each other, don’t they,” said Bucky. It wasn’t a question.

“Seem to,” Steve replied.

“Bringing things back to my original point.” Peggy gave them each a stern look, and they traded grins.

_Just like back in high school when the teacher’d bust us passing notes._

_Except we’re both almost 30 and Bucky’s got a metal arm and I’ve got tentacles and we’re in London and we’ve been to war and really it’s_ nothing _like back in the day._

_You take the fun out of everything, Rogers. Anyone ever told you that?_

“I want to make sure I understand this correctly,” Peggy continued, and Steve was never more thankful that his internal monologue wasn’t on display for the world to hear.

 _If I was some kinda private dick out of a Raymond Chandler dime novel that’d be one thing,_ it was a dark as the depths of sin when she stepped into my office for the first time, legs up to there and a smile that’d shatter diamond _, but I was never cut out to be noir. Not my genre. “Steve Rogers” just doesn’t have the same ring as “Philip Marlowe” or “Sam Spade.” Heck, neither does “Bucky Barnes” for that matter, that sounds more like the name for...for...for Batman’s sidekick, Robin the boy wonder and his best friend Bucky barn-smasher..._

_...he’d probably wear a cape..._

_...and tights..._

_…bet his legs would look fantastic…_

_...I need to sleep for at least a week..._

“Yup, that sums it up,” said Bucky.

_Wait, what?_

“Then I’m sorry to be a wet blanket, but there’s no way I can permit you to join S.H.I.E.L.D.,” Peggy declared.

“What? Why not?” protested Steve.

“Steve, Bucky _thinks_ no one but Reinhardt knew his passphrases and _hopes_ that they weren’t recorded anywhere. A leaky sieve is more reliable than Bucky’s memory,” said Peggy. “Right now I wouldn’t trust him with the safety of a…a…a memo about the mimeograph breaking, much less the safety of the world.”

“More than fair,” Bucky conceded. “Though if there’s a problem with the mimeo I gotcha covered…”

Peggy gave him a withering look that Bucky met with a boyish grin and cold, dead eyes.

“If Bucky’s out, then I’m out,” said Steve.

“But—”

“Come on, when have I _ever_ been able to keep a secret from Bucky?” Steve interrupted.

“I’m not _exactly_ Bucky,” offered Bucky. “You might be able to pull the wool over my eyes.” Steve quirked an eyebrow at him and made a gesture toward his tentacles, happily writhing through the dance of shame at the thought of trying to deceive Bucky.

“So Bucky’s your excuse?” Peggy shot him a critical look.

_That…is kinda what I just said, isn’t it?_

_You know, Steve, I’m capable of adhering to a personal code of ethics and still take care of myself. The two extremes – utter devotion to service without an iota left for myself versus utter selfishness in deference to my desires – might be the far ends of the pendulum swing but I don’t have to manically bounce between one or the other. There’s a middle ground here, and it’s time I start learning how to navigate that. I can have integrity and still have a sense of self-preservation. I can do the right thing but still stand up and say, “I have done this much and can do no more.”_

_Bucky_ does _make a convenient excuse, but that’s not why I’m not interested in joining S.H.I.E.L.D. at this time._

_I’ve given everything in service to my country, had everything taken away from me because I’d become an idealization. I wasn’t a man any longer, I was the embodiment of righteousness and democracy, a statue on a pedestal to be torn down and fed to the dogs in the name of Hydra’s ultimate victory. They didn’t care if I was Steve Rogers, so long as they could annihilate Captain America._

_I was an asset._

_Well, I’m no longer an asset to the United States. They can take the shield and bequeath it on someone else or let Peggy have it or have Stark experiment with it or melt it to Vibranium slag for all I care. The uniform can be retired, or another can fill it as proudly as I once did. I’m not that man any longer, and I don’t have to be._

“No,” said Steve, soft and confident. Certainty grew in his breast, and though he felt a pang of guilt, a pang of longing for who he had once been, it faded quickly. Contemplating the decision, considering his options, had meant subjecting himself to an endless litany of _what ifs_ and _I shoulds_ and _but I wants_. Now that he’d made a choice, he was at peace. “No excuses, not any more. It’s not a lie – I can’t keep a secret from Bucky. And after everything he’s been through, and everything _I’ve_ been through, I won’t leave his side again unless it’s at his insistence. He’s the love of my life, Peggy.”

“I know.”

“But still, you’re not wrong, those are excuses – polite half-truths to protect me from having to admit, flat out, that I _do not want_ to join S.H.I.E.L.D.”

Peggy didn’t look surprised.

Bucky did.

“Maybe it’s selfish, maybe it’s weak, but I’m tired, Peggy,” Steve confessed. “I stayed in Siberia because it was the right thing to do, because we were behind enemy lines, rogue agents on the loose, and no ‘proper’ authority could be brought to task for our transgressions. As long as we maintained that position, it was worth staying and fighting, but our placement was always tenuous. Even without something like the mess at the _Graf Zeppelin_ happening, our goose woulda been cooked come spring. Stalin’s not an idiot. We were operating within his domain against his interest. We’d have been _lucky_ if all he did was send in bombers to blow us to smithereens. Unlucky, and he’d have sent ground troops and tanks, and there’d have been no one to watch our backs, cause the other side of that ‘no government sanction’ coin is the ‘no government protection’ thing. We _all_ know, the holes that Stalin drops his enemies into? No one climbs outta those again. And honestly? I’d’a stayed anyway and taken that chance, let the others stay if they really wanted to. No one else could fight that fight. No one else could tackle Hydra.

“But that’s not true anymore. This S.H.I.E.L.D. thing of yours sounds killer, Pegs, and if anyone can take a great vision and turn it into a great plan of action and turn that into a great boots-on-the-ground operation, it’s you. I can honestly say I’ve never met _anyone_ in whose capabilities I have more confidence. You’re gonna knock it out of the park…” He met her stony look with a smile. “Or should I say, uh, tailor that dress perfectly?” Peggy broke into a stunning grin. Her hair was mashed against her head, her makeup off, and Steve keenly felt how privileged he was to see her without the armor she normally wore, denuded of the perfect performance of femininity with which she girded herself in public.

“I won’t say ‘never,’” Steve added, “but for now…I’m out. And if it’s all or nothing – if out now means out forever…then I’m still out. You’re gonna fight the good fight, and you’re gonna fight it _right_ , and I’ll support you no matter what, but…” Steve shrugged, tentacles twisting, unable to think of anything more conclusive and firm than what he’d already expressed, yet unable to escape the feeling that something more needed to be said.

“‘Tailor that dress perfectly,’” Peggy mimicked. “Steve, you’ve got a _lot_ to learn before you can make good fashion analogies. Don’t think of me as a seamstress; I am Madeleine Vionnet, couturier to the stars, and I’m going to build S.H.I.E.L.D. like I’m assembling an haute fashion _empire_.”

“Some of those sounded like words,” said Bucky.

“Might have even been English words,” Steve agreed.

Peggy sniffed. “I learned what a touchdown and a homerun are, I think you can strain yourself to understand a more civilized, more _feminine_ analogy. I’ve caught both of you ogling Vionnet’s designs more than once. And until you understand, the conversation will pass you by – or, if you’re less lucky, some female colleague will call attention to your ignorance and mock you publicly and ruthlessly because don’t you know, _everyone_ can tell a Vionnet from a Chanel from a Schiaparelli, and never forget that Hepburn wore it best. Better study hard, boys.”

“Geeze, do we really sound like that when we start in on the sports analogies?”

“Worse,” said Peggy grimly. “I’m considered an ignorant pussycat of a girl if I don’t know the difference between DiMaggio and Ruth, and God take pity on me if I dare ask _why_ the Red Sox and the Yankees are at odds, much less have the impunity to ask why it’s spelled ‘s-o-x’ and why in every picture I see their socks appear to be white, but they’re not called the ‘White Socks’ because we eschew proper grammar and because apparently some other team laid claim to that name. I learned enough to get by. I’m sure all the members of the Old Boys Club who sign on with S.H.I.E.L.D. will get with the program soon enough. I suspect Lydia and Margaret at least will know enough to back me up.”

“Remind me to never mess with her,” said Bucky, shaking his head. “But for now? Only thing I’m studying is this flimsy excuse for a pillow. I am _bushed_.”

“It’s gonna be great,” Steve said sincerely. “I’m sorry we’re not gonna be there with you.”

“And if you can design me something a little loose around the waist, fitted at the shoulder, nice A-Line flare, I promise I’ll tell everyone it’s a Peggy Carter original.” Bucky met Peggy’s surprised look with a grin. “What? I got three kid sisters. I’m a schmuck but I know a little something about _something_.”

“You’re impossible,” laughed Peggy. “God, I missed you – I missed you both so much.”

“Missed you too, Pegs,” Bucky said. “At least, I think I did. I can’t believe I _didn’t_ , if only ‘cause it sure feels good to see you again, and to hear ya laugh.”

“I had to come back,” said Steve. “You still owe me a dance.”

“And here I was, worried you’d step on my feet when you only had _two_ legs!” she exclaimed, throwing up her hands in mock despair.

“Having danced with our boy a time or two?” Bucky’s grin widened. “Trust me, he had two left feet before, probably’s got twenty now, but the real problem is his sense of rhythm.”

_This feels so close to old times._

“Stevie wouldn’t know a beat if it came up and punched him in the face.”

 _Just close enough for me to be acutely aware of how_ different _it is._

“That I can handle,” said Peggy. “All he’s gotta do is sway with the downbeat and step when I shove him.”

_Thing’s’ll never be the same between me and Bucky, or between me and Peggy, or between the three of us._

“I’ll try not to embarrass you _too_ badly.”

_Is there a ‘three of us’ anymore? Peggy hasn’t mentioned it, which implies she doesn’t want that to be part of our relationship any longer._

“If you do…well, a heel to the…the…the _tentacle_ will put in your place!”

_She can hardly bring herself to acknowledge the changes to my body, nor look at them; the prospect of her initiating…anything…physical is far-fetched. Even if she did…I never did answer the question of whether I’d still want intimacy with her._

“Have _mercy_ , hasn’t the poor boy suffered _enough_?” No one did melodramatic like Bucky.

_I honestly have no idea._

“He’ll heal.”

_It’s the elephant in the room. Avoid it all we want, it’s not going away._

“So are there still clubs in this rundown excuse for London-town? I know our original date called for New York but something tells me it’ll be a long time before any of us see the Big Apple again.”

_We’re finally on good footing, so no one wants to bring it up, but…_

“Hey, now, that’s a dance you could manage,” exclaimed Bucky. “I mean, swing’s got a lot of steps, but someone’d call out the moves, and with that many limbs, you gotta be able to get _four_ of ‘um in the right place. For the rest, no harm, no foul, right?”

_At least Bucky doesn’t miss a beat when he talks about my new-and-improved body. Whatever he sees when he looks at me, he’s no more nor less comfortable with kraken-me than he was with muscled-me than he was with scrawny-me._

“I’m sure we can find _somewhere_ to dance,” Peggy said, a hint of solemnity souring her tone, “if that’s something you really wanted to do.”

“It’d be a lot of time in public,” Steve conceded. He didn’t need Peggy’s apologies or her lies promising that everything would be okay. He fell silent and they watched him expectantly. He had no guess what their expectation was nor how he could meet it.

Steve had hardly seen anyone outside of his weird, Hydra-made bubble since the change, and every single one, even Stark the xenophile, had reacted negatively. _Specific_ people might get used to him with time and exposure – Peggy and Stark certainly would, and the Howling Commandos, and maybe Philips – but there was no hope for a future in which the vast majority of people Steve encountered, the strangers with whom he’d inevitably interact every day of every week of every month of every year of his possibly greatly extended life, wouldn’t react to him like he was a monster. And if by some miracle the world accommodated to him, that might even be worse.

 _You mean you haven’t heard of Steve Rogers? I thought_ everyone _had heard of the amazing dodeca-man. Used to call him…Captain something-or-other…but now he’s an octopus. Tragic story._

_I don’t want to be an also-ran. I don’t want what Hydra did to me to be my legacy. I don’t want my terrible experiences to be the sob story that politicians use to get votes and that old ladies share over tea so they can pretend to socially-acceptable levels of empathy._

“Even my limited interactions with people on the _Natchez_ and since we made port drove home what I already suspected: I cannot expect anyone to treat me as normal ever again,” Steve said, trying to sound unaffected.

_Captain America is dead. I’m not coming back, and I’m not joining S.H.I.E.L.D. No one need ever know that Steve Rogers has been resurrected._

“Steve…” Judging by Peggy’s troubled tone, Steve’s words had _not_ been what she was expecting.

_But it’s too late. Beard the lion or forever hold your peace, Steve…_

“But that’s not the real question,” he pressed on. “Pegs, are _you_ comfortable being seen in public with me? And, more than that – are you comfortable with this? With me? With any of this? I won’t be upset if the answer is no but I’ve got a right to know. You said it was weird to you, but nothing more, and sorry, but that’s not enough info for me to go on.” Peggy blushed and turned away. “I don’t want to force your confidence, but expecting me to guess what you want from our relationship going forward based on your behavior isn’t fair.”

“Right again,” she sighed. Turning back around, she gave him a sad smile, tears rimming her eyes. “Bucky’s worst habit is acting the same no matter how hurt he is inside, your worst habit is martyrdom, and mine’s evasion. We, uh…we had fun, Steve. I loved you – I _do_ love you, both of you – but things aren’t that simple anymore.”

“Believe me, you don’t have to tell _us_ that shit’s gotten complicated,” Bucky snorted.

“I moved on – I _tried_ to move on when I thought you were dead, and I don’t know if that’s why things feel weird now, or if it’s because of…” She made an up and down gesture in the direction of Steve’s body, flicked a finger toward Bucky’s arm. “…or something else entirely, but the spark is gone. I’m so sorry. I knew I had to say something, but I couldn’t figure out how to…you know…I even thought about suggesting you spend the night at the Savoy with the others but that felt too…”

“On the nose?” suggest Bucky.

“No, not…look, whatever we may be to each other going forward, that doesn’t change what we shared, and you were and are two of my closest friends,” said Peggy, the words so heartfelt that Steve felt bad for bringing the issue up. She’d made her wishes clear by body language and affect from the moment they’d been reunited, but he’d just _had_ to push her to be explicit and—

_Oh no you don’t, Steve, I am not letting you go martyr on this one. Communication is critical and this is a conversation we had to have, as important in its own way as the conversation about Bucky’s trustworthiness and my plans regarding S.H.I.E.L.D._

“I’d never kick you out of my home and send you to the Savoy as if you were strangers,” Peggy concluded.

“No, of course not, real friends let their ex-lovers-turned-whatever-we-are sleep on the floor when they could have had room service in the lap of luxury.” The over-the-top lamentation made it clear Bucky was joking, and Peggy managed a smile.

“Seriously, Peggy, if that was your hang up, we could have _all_ spent the night at the Savoy, I can’t imagine Stark would have minded booking you a room, or you could have stayed in ours.”

“Way more floor space then here.”

Shaking her head, Peggy managed through her laughter, “I still want that dance, Steve.”

“It’s a date, Pegs. You know I can’t leave my best girl hanging.”

“Thank you, Steve. For everything.”

“Back atcha.”

“So…where will you go now? What will you do?”

“That’s a damn good question,” said Bucky around a comically big yawn. “Whaddaya say we talk about it _after_ we get a good night’s sleep?”

Fatigue swept in, unexpectedly strong, as he automatically, inadvertently mirrored Bucky’s yawn. A moment later Peggy knuckled her mouth as well, grimacing. “Reasonable – but I’m chasing you out when the Wrecking Crew arrives. Future S.H.I.E.L.D. members only!”

“Don’t worry, we won’t storm your clubhouse,” Bucky laughed.

“We can chat over breakfast,” Steve said.

Steve settled down beside Bucky. The earlier reticence that had kept him a polite foot apart from Bucky was gone; he tucked himself against Bucky’s back, snugged up under the blanket with him, and draped an arm around Bucky’s chest. Steve let out a breath and tension dissipated from his back.

_I guess I was more anxious about that then I realized._

_I’m glad we talked it out._

_I’m so glad Bucky and I are on the same page about moving on with our lives._

_I hope…_

The thought faded to silence as Steve fell into a deep sleep, Bucky powerful and pliant in his arms.

Steve was at peace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, I'll own I'm SUPER curious - keeping in mind that this story was written for the Captain America Reverse Big Bang, which means it was inspired by a piece of art work (cobaltmoony's wonderful work!) - before the "big reveal" next chapter...based on everything you've read so far...anyone wanna take a moment and share what YOU think the artwork is of?


	24. Chapter 24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: the artwork is in the endnote and it is HELLA NSFW so if having an NSFW image pop up in the midst of your reading is going to be a problem, behave accordingly.

“They gave us a nice send off,” said Steve, watching the _USS Natchez_ grow smaller as it receded into the distance.

“If you like that kind of thing,” Bucky conceded. The area of darkened sand beneath him grew as water dripped from the joints of his cybernetic arm. Stark had been prepared to launch a skiff for them and drop them at the shore. Bucky and Steve showed him what a pointless expenditure of effort that was, instead saying their final goodbyes and then leaping into the pristine, sparkling blue waves about a mile out. It had seemed like a great plan, but Bucky hadn’t actually _tested_ the modifications Hydra had made so that he could pursue Steve through the water.

The gills worked great. Heck, the gills appeared to work even better than Steve’s did.

The arm got waterlogged.

Fortunately, the cybernetics hadn’t broken or short-circuited, but it had grown damn heavy, reducing Bucky’s swim speed to a crawl.

“If I squint, I can still see Alison waving,” lied Steve. Bucky rolled his eyes.

Watching his friends – their friends? – sail off to go save the world without them was bittersweet. In the end, all of the Wrecking Crew members had signed on with S.H.I.E.L.D., some enthusiastically, some with resignation. Not all had accompanied Howard on the ‘mission’ to drop Steve off. Peggy, for one, had disembarked in Washington D.C., and Carlos, Lydia and Sayaana had gone with her. Sayaana had been the hardest sell on joining S.H.I.E.L.D., but once she realized that bringing down Hydra meant taking on the USSR, and taking on the USSR meant confronting Stalin, and confronting Stalin might lead to his regime crumbling, and Stalin’s regime crumbling was the best chance her people stood of achieving independence, she became an enthusiastic supporter. The Washington group was tasked with convincing Truman to back them. The fallout of the stripped _Graf Zeppelin_ reaching American waters had already started; Peggy had joked that Philips’ screams of rage could be heard half-way across the Atlantic, but from what Steve had pieced together, Philips was making a big show of being disgruntled when in truth he was glad he’d been duped.

No one was supposed to talk to Steve about the formation of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Everyone, Peggy included, talked to Steve about the formation of S.H.I.E.L.D.

Philips always had been smart, wily, and well-versed on the political ramifications of his actions. He got to Washington and raised a huge stink about the importance of the intelligence that Peggy and Howard had ‘co-opted.’ He primed the pump with Congress and the President by making it clear how _critical_ it was that the US Military have access to those documents ‘no matter the cost’ and while Peggy’s _methods_ might leave something to be desired he ‘had to acknowledge’ that her plan to form a Strategic Homeland defense force was sound, especially in light of the U.N.’s resolution not to form a joint military force.

Steve and the Colonel hadn’t always seen eye to eye, but Philips was a patriot, he understood the threats facing the world, and he wasn’t going to stop fighting the good fight just because the war was done. Steve was glad Peggy had such a staunch ally. She was going to need all the help she could get. Fortunately, there was a lot of help to be had. Once the Commandos and the Crewmates had committed to joining S.H.I.E.L.D., they had a group meeting in which everyone explained their abilities and assets. Hydra had assembled a pretty remarkable group of prisoners. Though interrogation and information had never seemed their priority, it couldn’t be a coincidence that so many of their prisoners – Steve and Bucky included – had valuable knowledge.

Lydia had been the assistant to the Director of the Women’s Royal Canadian Naval Service and had prominent contacts throughout the Canadian government. Her first stop in Washington was the Canadian embassy, where her intention was to meet with the staff, spread the word that she was alive, and liaise with the Ambassador…who happened to be her older brother.

Carlos was not only a pirate, not only the commander of a powerful ship, he was also a former Admiral in the Spanish navy and a prominent Republican leader during the Spanish Civil War. After the Nationalist victory, he’d fled to Argentina, assembled a crew, and started a life of anti-Fascist piracy before Hydra captured him. Along the way, he’d made friends and forged alliances with diverse groups at both ends of the political spectrum. His contacts in Argentina were already bearing fruit; Carlos had a list of prominent Nazis who’d used the ratlines to escape to South America and where they were hiding. Carlos brought that information to Washington while his shipmates headed south. They’d sung enthusiastic shanties, the gist of which Steve thought translated to ‘and a painful death to our enemies,’ as they parted ways from the _Natchez_.

Alison’s family built railroads throughout the South. Despite her apparent lack of polish, Alison knew how to switch on all the airs of a Southern Belle, so suave and charming she’d have given Scarlett O’Hara a run for her money. It almost seemed a split personality – watching her act cultured was _weird_ – but she explained that on the one hand she’d had to help her parents woo stakeholders, from bankers to mayors to land-owners, and on the other hand she’d always preferred to spend her time with the grifters and hobos hitching rides in empty stock cars. The dichotomy had served her especially well when her parents learned about her _predilection_ for women and disowned her when she was 17. She owned she _hated_ pretending to be the debutante again, but she was willing to in the name of a good cause. Plus, she’d added with a wink, if she was a debutante, she’d get to see all the _other_ debutantes in their finery, and that made the sacrifice worthwhile.

The list went on: Margaret’s father served in the House of Lords; Alfons had been a Generalleutnant in the Wehrmacht; Mei Jiang had ties with revolutionaries throughout China and Southeast Asia; Sayaana was married to a future clan head and her father was an elder in her tribe; Mayeso’s ancestors had been askiya of Dendi, and when the French invaded his branch of the family had fled to Nyasaland, where they’d gained position in the British administration.

No randomly swept-up group could have had so many prominent connections nor come from so many important families. Hydra’s attacks might have seemed haphazard, but the odds that they’d have ‘accidentally’ taken _one_ prominent prisoner were long. The odds that they’d ‘accidentally’ taken a dozen, two dozen, maybe _hundreds_ of prominent prisoners? Were zero. There’d been a plan behind who Hydra captured, and among those prisoners, which they kept alive and which they allowed to die.

For Hydra to have had the knowledge and ability and resources to pluck out individual soldiers from amongst the millions serving in the armies of the world, their operations must be more extensive than even Steve had imagined.

 _And it begs the question…I know that Schmidt and Hydra were aware of my existence. They sent Kruger to kill Dr. Erskine. They were well informed about Project Rebirth, and they must have known my name and possibly who I was, maybe even something about my life before Lehigh. When they attacked the 107 th at Azzano, did they do so knowing where the 107th came from? When they took prisoners, did they seek out Bucky and the others, hoping to find someone with a connection to me? For all their quirks, every member of the Howling Commandos is remarkable: knowledgeable, connected, brave, strong-willed…they seemed such a random group to be thrown together in the worst of circumstances that I never stopped to wonder if Hydra grouped them _intentionally _, captured those specific men with a specific plan involved._

_Why take prominent prisoners?_

There were many possible reasons, each troubling.

_Geeze, if Hydra captured the men from the 107 th, captured Bucky, because of his connection to me, then it really is my fault and—_

_And no, it’s not, it’s_ still _not, and quit it, Steve._

As distinguished as the Howling Commandos and the Wrecking Crew members were, if they _were_ Hydra double-agents, the potential damage they could do, to S.H.I.E.L.D. and to the world, was astounding. There was no way to be sure. Peggy had agonized about the risks of opening up her operations to a group of potentially compromised people, worried about Hydra’s ability to implant themselves so deeply in a victim’s mind that the former prisoners themselves might not know their true allegiance, but in the end, she’d erred on the side of trust.

 _One of Hydra’s great strengths is their ability to create doubt and foster divisions between those who should be allies. I’ll not bolster their strength by giving in to paranoia. I’d rather trust and ultimately be betrayed, and deal with the consequences thereof, then look back and know I_ should _have trusted when I didn’t. I will be wary. I will be alert. I will be sensible. But I will not give Hydra this win. I will not let them break us apart before we’ve even begun._

Steve had never been more proud of her. And that was saying something, because Peggy was remarkable and Steve was proud of her, awed by her, respectful of her, often.

“Wasn’t the whole point of getting dropped off on a deserted Caribbean island that we _don’t_ gotta keep thinkin’ so hard? There oughta be smoke coming out of your ears, Steve, geeze.”

Steve spared a glance at Bucky, lounging beside him on the pristine sand of the beach, waves lapping at his toes. By the time he looked back to the horizon, though his gaze had only shifted for an instant, the _USS Natchez_ was gone, gray silhouette lost against the fuzzy line that ambiguously showed where the blue ocean gave way to the blue sky.

“I’m worried about them,” Steve admitted, lying back, propping his head up with his arms, and letting his tentacles drift in the waves slowly deepening around them as the tide came in. “Hydra—”

“—ain’t our problem any longer,” said Bucky. “If they need us, they’ll call.”

‘Deserted island’ was the wrong term for the paradise that Stark had produced for them. _Just a little something I’ve had lying around in case of a rainy day_ , he’d said with one of those smug smiles he got on his face when he wanted to pretend he thought _everyone_ owned Caribbean islands. Then he’d handed them a damn _folder_ about the place, complete with Kodachrome photographs and a sales pitch. _It’s yours if you want it_ , he’d said magnanimously. _I’m not using it for anything_.

The name – ‘Starkland’ – clearly needed work, but the island itself was a dream come true. A couple hundred acres at least, with a fresh water spring and grounds maintained by someone Stark hired from St. Thomas. There was a 15 room villa nestled amidst the virgin tropical forest, complete with electricity, plumbing and telephone service. There was even an air conditioner and a refrigerator. A photograph showed a flock of bright pink flamingos poking around a cove; labeled in black marker, an arrow pointed to one specific bird indistinguishable from the rest, and Howard’s messy scrawl read, “I call this one Betsy, she’s a good girl.” A yacht was moored at the single dock; the trip to the nearest market on St. Thomas was apparently 2 hours each way, but Steve suspected he could shave some time off that by swimming, and he’d not have to waste the gas. The people on St. Thomas would surely react to him oddly, but at least the population was small. They’d get used to him.

_Or Bucky could go. He looks mostly human, and once we sort out the problem with his arm, I bet he’ll swim about as fast as I do._

_No. I’ll not be driven to live like a hermit because of a few tentacles. Let the world see me as I am, and I’ll deal with the consequences if and when they happen._

“I’m surprised you agreed to come here,” Steve said, fishing for a topic of conversation.

“Why?” asked Bucky. “Doesn’t it seem like something ‘I’d’ do?”

“I don’t know.” Steve rolled onto his side, arms still under his head, and gazed at Bucky. Under the warm Caribbean sun, Bucky’s skin looked wan, his lips chapped, but his drying hair made a fuzzy, sandy halo around his head, his metal arm gleamed, and his shirt and pants yet clung to his skin, patches of lingering damp betrayed by a darkening in the fabric. They’d not packed bags or brought additional belongings. Anything they’d owned in New York was long gone – Steve had no family, so when he was presumed dead his things disappeared, and while Bucky’s sisters might have kept something…

 _…I don’t wanna see them_ , Bucky had admitted when Steve confronted him on the topic. _Don’t wanna get their hopes up that their brother is alive. He’s not. I’m not Bucky. I hardly remember them, but I remember enough to know they’ll be excited and thrilled and overwhelmed for all of five minutes and then they’ll realize the truth and the disappointment will set in. Let ‘um think I died a hero. The truth won’t bring ‘um a lick of peace._

They’d get whatever supplies needed on St. Thomas. Stark had somehow arranged for money to be left for them in the Island’s house. The man was a force of nature.

“Crap, we’re going to get hit by hurricanes, aren’t we?” Steve grumbled.

“Non-sequitur much?”

“Look, I…” Steve rolled on to his back, the flap of skin that had grown down his spine chafing against the sand. “Can we maybe figure out a way to have a conversation that doesn’t start with you getting offended because you _think_ I’m treating you like Bucky?”

“Aren’t you?” Bucky countered.

“Even if I am, throwing it in my face gets us nowhere,” said Steve. “I get that you’ve changed, what I want to know is _how_ you’ve changed. Yes, I _do_ think Bucky woulda thought coming to this island and living here’d be a trip. He’d have fallen over his own feet, he woulda run to the plane so fast. But, for whatever, reason, I didn’t think this’d be your cup of tea _now_ , so I tried to make conversation. If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s fine, but don’t twist my meaning around. I don’t know how much clearer I can be that I support you. And I assumed you believed me – assumed you wouldn’t have come here if you didn’t think we’d moved past that.”

“Or I might have wanted to get you alone here so I could kill you…”

Even though Bucky’s tone made it clear he was joking, Steve replied seriously, “If you wanted me dead, there were far easier ways to accomplish that goal. You’ve had plenty of opportunities.”

“But none of those opportunities ended with me alone with the run of paradise,” Bucky countered.

“So you _did_ want to come here!” Steve crowed.

Bucky chuckled. “Congrats, you got me.”

Overhead, branches swayed, leaves incandescent green when struck by sunlight, black shadows when they grew too dense for the light to penetrate. Birdsong warbled and cooed around them, rustles and scratches suggesting the animals moving about in the forest. The air was warm but not overly humid, the breeze light and refreshing. The weather was perfect. The day was perfect. The island was perfect.

Steve wasn’t perfect.

Bucky wasn’t perfect.

_Having a tiff is a good reminder. On a day this lovely, in a place this spectacular, with freedom looming large before us, it’d be so easy to think that our troubles were behind us. There will always be storm clouds. There will always be issues. There will always be the danger of a hurricane._

_A good life isn’t the absence of strife. We make our lives good or bad, make ourselves good or bad, by how we handle our reverses._

“I’m glad you’re here.” A tropical zephyr reduced Bucky’s words to a mere whisper. “I’m glad we’re here together.”

“Me too, Bucky.”

“I, uh…I appreciate how patient you are with me.”

Steve let his head fall to the side and found Bucky’s gaze turned toward him, sand sticking to his cheek and catching in his stubble. A smile quirked his lips. The endless Siberian twilight had made his expressive eyes dark, drab and expressionless; beneath the brilliant sunshine they glowed as blue as the ocean, alight with happiness and life. Awed, Steve stared, the urge to roll himself atop Bucky and kiss him senseless burgeoning.

“I’m trying,” said Bucky earnestly.

“I know you are, Buck,” Steve breathed.

“You know, if you _didn’t_ want to be here – if you wanted to go after the _Natchez_ – I’d understand,” Bucky offered. “You’re a fighter. I give it a week before you’re sick of the quiet life. We’ve both spent enough time in cages, and I don’t want you to feel trapped here, trapped lookin’ after me.”

“Who said anything about no longer fighting?” Steve’s brow bunched with puzzlement. “I said I didn’t want to join S.H.I.E.L.D. and stand in the fore of Peggy’s fight against Hydra. I said I wanted to take things easy for a while and recover. I said I was worried about how the world’d perceive me. And I said, and God did I mean, that I wanted to be with you. What, in there, makes you think I plan on living the quiet life?”

“Don’t see a lot of trouble on this island,” Bucky said.

“We’re not restricted to this island,” Steve countered. “We’ve got the whole Caribbean to explore. Something tells me we’ll have no trouble finding ways to occupy our time.” Bucky’s expression went blank – _no, it’s not the Caribbean infecting him that’s lightened his eyes; when he goes distant his eyes get darker_ – and Steve grimaced. “If that’s something you want, I mean. I didn’t mean to assume – that is to say, we can talk it over, figure out how to pass the time together, and—”

“Stop – stop, Steve,” Bucky laughed. “It’s fine. Actually, it’s kind of a relief. I don’t have to be enough.”

“Huh?”

The darkness cleared from Bucky’s eyes once more. “If it’s just you, and it’s just me, and it’s just this island, and just this house…whatever fulfillment we’re gonna get, it’s gotta be something we find in each other. And Steve…I know I don’t say…I mean…I’m shit at this feelings stuff, I always was, and now I’m even worse, but you gotta know I _adore_ you—”

“You _do_?”

“—that’s not even a question, like, from the moment I saw you sittin’ on that rooftop, naked and drawing like you hadn’t a care in the world, I’ve been _obsessed_ , and nothing Reinhardt did could get you outta my head. And it wasn’t cause you were Steve Rogers, wasn’t cause of what we’d been to each other – okay, I mean, that _mighta_ been a factor, I can’t be sure, but if you knew how many times I watched ‘you’ – him – like, you-with-legs die, how many times I…but that doesn’t matter, the point is, whatever part of my brain coulda looked at you and seen my Stevie was way past…understanding, knowing, recognizing, getting it, anything…and that wasn’t what grabbed me. Hydra screwed everything up when they gave you those suckers – get it? Suckers? – cause it made _you_ , Steve, just different enough from _Captain Rogers_ that when I looked at you, I didn’t see him, I just saw…you…and damn if you’re not fuckin’ _captivating_ just the way you are.”

“Bucky…”

“But listen – you gotta listen,” Bucky implored. “I’m just a post-torture Hydra assassin basket case. Yeah, I’m pretty tough, and this arm’s not half bad now that I’m used to it and especially since you promised to paint the star white, and I still got a couple of my marbles I think, but _you_ …like if there _is_ silver lining to this shit we went through, you’re it, cause you got the best of both worlds. The torture part sucked, I’m not contesting that, but your head’s still on straight _and_ you got super powers. You’re the whole package, Steve. You were before but now you’re…and I’m…” Words failing him, Bucky made a gesture that took Steve in from head to toe, repeated the gesture in reference to himself and shot Steve an earnest look like somehow he’d understand what the hell Bucky was getting at.

“You’re…?” Hell would freeze over before Steve would let that sentence hang. If Bucky was going to make assumptions about himself, and further make assumptions about himself _on Steve’s behalf_ , he was going to have to own them and state them explicitly.

“Come on, Steve,” Bucky groused. “Are you gonna make me…?”

“I’m not making you do anything,” said Steve. “You brought it up. You’ve clearly got _something_ in mind. I just want to know _what_. If you don’t want to tell me, that’s fine, but I refuse to play ‘fill in the blank.’”

“Hell…I take it all back, you’re a pain in my ass, Rogers,” muttered Bucky.

“I’d like to be,” Steve replied blithely.

Bucky’s eyes popped open wide.

_Christ, did I really just say that aloud?_

“Shit, you can’t just…”

“You’re right, sorry – sexual forwardness is _your_ role, right?” Steve smiled to make it clear he was kidding. “The man takes the lead, initiates, says what he wants…and then there’s me…trust me, Bucky, I’d still spread my legs for you if I had ‘um, but far from – I still got that tongue you always liked but for the rest you’re up a creek.”

“You were never a substitute,” said Bucky.

“You do remember…”

“Some things,” Bucky allowed. “Sometimes. I’m a mess, Steve. That’s what I was trying to say before. I am a total fucking mess.”

“But you’re my mess,” said Steve.

Bucky swallowed. “Trust you to make something so damn complicated sound so fricken _easy_.”

“It’s not easy. But it’s worth the effort. _You’re_ worth the effort.”

“Hell.”

For a fraught moment, they each lay on the sand, Steve’s heart thumping with anticipation, and then Bucky surged across the space dividing them and locked their mouths together. Steve’s arms wrapped around Bucky’s back, Bucky’s hands curled around Steve’s shoulder, cupped his face, and they kissed and kissed and kissed. Surf washed around them, froth curling about Steve’s shoulders, submerging Bucky’s legs where Steve tangled his tentacles around them. Heat enveloped Steve, inside and out, the air warm, the sand warm, the water warm, the breeze warm, the sunlight warm, Bucky hot and heavy over him. Their initial kisses were frantic, messy. Bucky always seemed to start off acting like his life depended on the flick of tongue on tongue and the clack of teeth accidentally striking teeth, acted like he was terrified that at any moment Steve would change his mind. The longer they kissed, the calmer Bucky grew, segueing to languid licks and sucks, soft brushes, long pauses with their faces pressed together sharing the air between them.

Water tugged at Steve’s body, sluicing away the sand supporting him, the tide rushing up to meet them. Bucky kissed Steve’s cheek, his chin, behind his ear, and nipped at the corded muscles of his neck.

“These suit you,” he murmured, sucking a bruise above Steve’s clavicle, doing it again, again, tracing an unknown pattern. The praise wouldn’t process, Steve too absorbed in pleasure, too distracted by Bucky’s body pressed against his own. Tentacles looped around Bucky’s legs, tucked into his pants, and two flailing tips struggled with the buttons holding on Bucky’s suspenders and closing his fly. The urge to rip the garment asunder, to hasten the feel of Bucky’s coarse skin rubbing against Steve’s silken-smooth tentacles, was powerful, but he wasn’t sure they had more pairs of pants.

_Bah, who needs pants? Bucky didn’t bother with boots because they’d be heavy and awkward to swim in and the salt water would’ve done a number on the leather…are clothes any more necessary? There’s no one else on this island…_

_…nudity might make visiting St. Thomas even more awkward than it’s already going to be…_

Bucky’s tongue traced circles and swirls over Steve’s arm. He trailed kisses over the sensitive skin within Steve’s elbow, nuzzled at the cords of Steve’s muscles, and not until Steve glanced down did he realize that Bucky was mimicking the whorls and lines of Steve’s tattoo. He’d grown so accustomed to the flashes of black in his peripheral vision that he didn’t pay them any mind. From the day Carlos had finished inking them, the stylized tentacles had felt a part of Steve, like they’d belonged there, like they’d been part of his skin from the day he was born.

_What did Bucky say?_

_These suit you._

_Yes, I suppose that’s the term for it_.

“Would you really…” Bucky trailed off to suck one of Steve’s fingers into his mouth, and Steve gasped. His hands were underwater, but the transition didn’t phase Bucky; he released the finger, ducked his face above the surface once more, and gave Steve a hopeful smile. “Would you really…be…inside me?”

“Yes,” Steve breathed.

“I want that,” said Bucky, working his way back up Steve’s torso with kisses and nips and licks, pausing to suck at Steve’s nipples. Steve groaned, threw his head back, water splashing about his face, around his eyes, into his mouth, as he thrashed amidst the puddle formed as the sand washed out around him.

Bucky’s pants _still_ wouldn’t unbutton.

 _Screw this_.

Steve flexed his tentacles and the seams of Bucky’s pants snapped, flaps of fabric billowing in the wind and floating in the waves, only the waistband holding them in place. Bucky broke out in wonderful laughter, exuberant and carefree.

“Eager much?”

“You have no idea,” murmured Steve. “I want you in any way you’ll let me have you, Bucky.”

“Then take what you want.”

Bucky stated the offer plainly, matter-of-factly, meeting Steve’s eyes as he did. The sincerity in those clear blue depths was breath-taking, and Steve let the ocean wash over him, let it steal his breath away and fill his lungs with the tang of salt. Bucky leaned down and kissed him passionately, drinking the water from his mouth. A wave crashed around Bucky’s back, matting his hair about his face as it receded, and the undertow snagged Steve’s tentacles and floated him several inches from where they’d started. Once, the might of the ocean had terrified Steve, but now it was _home_ , more than Brooklyn had been, more than Europe had been, more than Siberia had been. One huge body of water, arbitrarily divided into seven seas but in truth a continuous medium embracing the entire world. Steve wasn’t threatened by the waves, wasn’t frightened at the prospect of being pulled out to sea.

_Home is wherever the waves take me, wherever they take Bucky and I, and if I want to find my way back here, I can, but if we never return to Stark’s retreat, that would be fine too._

_We’re free._

Looping tentacles over Bucky’s torso, Steve tore his shirt away, exposing him for the first time since their reunion. The pull of another wave dragged them out of the shallows, set Bucky’s locks dancing about his face. Steve’s hair, bound with a cord that Peggy had given him, wafted over his shoulder. Water flooded their noses and mouths and Bucky gasped as his lungs filled, panic momentarily blanking his expression, limbs going rigid as instinct demanded he fight the flow. Worried, Steve coiled tentacles around Bucky’s ankles, around his wrists, wrapped one thick around his waist, and caught his weight, free-floating in the crystalline depths. Bucky struggled for an instant then went limp. His eyes fluttered open and he gave Steve a lazy, happy smile.

Meeting Bucky’s vague expression firmly, Steve held a hand out in a thumbs up. Neither had the ability to talk underwater. If they intended to swim together frequently they’d have to work out some kind of signaling system, but for now, make-shift sign language would have to do. Bucky’s pupils spread and shrank as he struggled to focus, and he nodded.

Naked, Bucky was a sight to behold. Light filtering through the waves dappled his skin in shades of pale blue save where the flush of arousal pinked him: his cheeks, the top of his chest, his nipples, his cock. Every line of every muscle was graven as in marble; his body had always been spectacular but now it was perfect, Adonis made flesh and bone and metal, hard muscles made soft at the concave curve of his belly and the plush rise of his ass cheeks. The metal of his arm twinkled in the sunlight, red star of Russia made a star in truth by the glow. Captivated, Steve reached out, curled his fingers over the chiseled line of Bucky’s chin and drew him in for a kiss. In the thrill of contact, Steve almost missed that Bucky didn’t reciprocate; when he realized, his nerves thrummed, but then Bucky pressed against him, exhaled a stream of bubbles that effervesced against Steve’s palate, and worked their lips together. The water added entirely new elements to their kisses, each of their unique flavors mixing with the salty tang of the pure seawater, liquid and air passing between them.

Pleasure sparked through Steve and his desire for greater contact between them surged. He wrapped a second tentacle around each of Bucky’s thighs and gently spread his legs apart, movements hesitant and telegraphed as he carefully watched for any sign of resistance or displeasure. Bucky sighed hot water into Steve’s mouth and strained to open himself wider still. If Steve could have swallowed without getting a stomachful of ocean he’d have done so. His cocks - Stark had oh-so-helpfully informed Steve that the sexual tentacles of octopuses and squids were called ‘hectocotyli,’ and Steve did _not_ want to know why Howard Stark knew that particular factoid – moved without his conscious direction, rubbing at Bucky’s thighs, heads growing dusky red, tips leaking dark trails that diffused through the water. Bucky squirmed against him, seeking more skin-to-skin contact, and he rumbled a deep sound that vibrated through the water and tingled through Steve’s tentacles.

_That’s as close to a request for more as I’m going to get, I think…_

 One of Steve’s cocks wiggled against the pucker of Bucky’s butt. The blunt head had more feeling and dexterity than a dick did, and Steve mapped out by touch where Bucky’s hole was, the sparse covering of hair on his perineum, the thicket of curls around his hard cock, the taut weight of his testicles. With touch came taste, and a musky flavor coated Steve’s mouth, at once revolting and intoxicating and delicious. They’d brought no lubricant with them, neither oil nor petroleum jelly nor soap nor shortening. A lifetime lived on the cheap and in the army had taught them to improvise or, at worst, use nothing and be _extremely_ careful. The adroitness of Steve’s hectocotyli enabled him to nudge at Bucky’s entrance and feel every twitch, every allowance that Bucky’s body made for him. Incrementally, he stretched Bucky’s taut hole open and slid within, Bucky’s channel hot compared to the tepid water around them. Bucky adapted as, millimeter by millimeter, inch by inch, Steve filled him.

_Oh…oh wow…_

Being inside Bucky was _indescribable_. Friction burned hot through Steve’s limbs, tingled through his core, and the pressure that enveloped his cock seemed to envelope his entire body; he swore he could feel the same bliss emanating from the brush of Bucky’s chest against him, from the lap of Bucky’s tongue against his, from the strain of Bucky’s muscles against Steve’s coiled tentacles. Arms and legs bound, Bucky was imprisoned, helpless, yet he didn’t show the least sign of reticence.

_Trust. Even after everything he’s been through, despite his fears, he trusts me. He’s showing me that now in every movement, every surrender. Him opening himself to me like this…it’s an apology and a supplication and a demonstration of faith as surely as any word he’s said to me in the past weeks._

Steve shuddered to stillness within Bucky and Bucky’s groan escaped as a rush of water and a slew of tiny bubbles. Trembling with the need for self-control, Steve gathered himself, blinked slowly, let his lungs expand around the water filling them, and exhaled through his nose.

Bucky rocked his hips back.

With a hiss of bliss, Steve responded to Bucky’s initiation. He didn’t thrust – he didn’t dare, wouldn’t risk hurting Bucky even knowing that Bucky’s ability to heal meant that no harm would be lasting – but Steve’s body knew what to do. He wiggled, tiny movements that Steve knew from past experience felt large when constrained by that tight hole. Bucky groaned again and pivoted back against Steve’s cock, trying to force Steve to move harder and faster than he was willing to go. A tentacle wrapped around Bucky’s hips, steadying him, holding him in place, and Bucky clenched, relaxed, clenched again. Groaning, Steve drew Bucky in for another kiss. His embedded cock felt swollen, felt like it was growing, or perhaps Bucky’s channel was shrinking, and Bucky’s groans gave way to desperate whimpers as he continued to struggle against Steve’s hold, begging for more.

Something in Steve _snapped_ so abruptly that he tried to cry out aloud, sound escaping him muted by the water. Liquid surged through his cock, surged into Bucky’s body, enveloped Steve’s hectocotyli in sudden slickness. Unthinking, Steve slid out and drove back in hard as a second surge flooded Bucky’s insides with Steve’s oily come.

With semen to ease the way, Steve gave over self-restraint, gave over everything save the single driving force that had become paramount in his mind.

Steve needed _more_.

A second of Steve’s cocks butted against Bucky’s hole, seeking entry, seeking relief from the desire pulsing through him like a second heartbeat. Bucky moaned as the pressure against him increased, and Steve could swear that Bucky struggled to spread his legs wider, to try to accommodate more, but Steve couldn’t trust himself to judge fairly. Desperation distracted him, made him oblivious to the hidden meanings of Bucky’s body language. He yanked his already flaccid cock free of Bucky’s ass; a burst of inky black came with it, and Steve thrust in hard with his next hectocotylus arm before too much semen could escape. With the way amply smoothed and Bucky relaxed and hot around him, Steve pounded into Bucky deep and hard. Bucky growled an approving sound and Steve’s eyes rolled shut as he thrust and thrust and thrust. He’d thought that being inside Bucky would be good but this was _incredible_ , beyond anything Steve had experienced when Bucky had filled him, beyond anything Steve had experienced when he’d made love to Bucky or Peggy. Despite that, Steve knew, _knew_ with a conviction born of need and yearning, that it could be even better.

Two more of Steve’s cocks strained against Bucky’s body, one thrusting against Bucky’s crack, the other rubbing against his leg. Even with pleasure cresting in him Steve couldn’t get enough, couldn’t climax fast enough.

 _Is it_ always _going to be like this?_

_I hope not._

_I hope so._

_It’s just so…so…so_ much _…Jesus Christ…_

Steve thought there’d be tears pooled in his eyes if the surrounding water didn’t sweep them away. He pumped into Bucky harder, harder still, whimpering with urgency, and when the break finally came, when his pleasure crested to sublime bliss and the light hitting his eyelids blued out in rapture, he scarce managed to pull free before his next tentacle crowded in to Bucky’s leaking hole. Two cocks collided seeking entry, and it was all Steve could do not to press in with both; he slid one in, the other rubbing against Bucky’s cock. Deep noises escaped Bucky, soft in the dense water.

_Only you, Buck..._

_Forever you..._

_...God, I hope you’ll stop me if I hurt you...I know you can...I’ve got your legs encircled, I’ve got your arm held behind your back, but neither of us are merely men and I know you’re stronger than this. You’re capable of fighting back, but I’m scared...I want you so incredibly_ _much and we didn’t really talk through what was on and off the table sexually and you seem so vulnerable sometimes, especially here in the water, and..._

Fingers curled around Steve’s waist, brushed up his side, curled tenderly around his neck. Lips brushed his and Steve clung to the kiss like salvation, like _permission_ , as he thrust into Bucky over and over again. Bucky’s nails tickled lightly over Steve’s cheek, his thumb pressed against Steve’s nose, his palm warm was against Steve’s cheek, and he ran a finger over Steve’s eyes.

_Huh?_

Bucky’s lips met Steve’s again, but though they moved Steve couldn’t call it a kiss. It was almost like...

...almost like Bucky was trying to tell him something.

The fingers brushed at Steve’s long lashes.

_...and encourage me to open my eyes?_

Slowing his strokes, Steve obeyed Bucky’s unspoken command.

Bucky broke into a smile as soon as their gazes met, and he mouthed something, enunciating exaggeratedly. His lips pursed around a sound, then flattened wide. Steve shook his head, not understanding, and his perception spun, soared among the clouds, dived to the ocean floor. The only constant in the world was Bucky before him, Bucky around him, and it was all Steve could do not to thrust himself to insanity. Bucky emphatically repeated his words, tried a third time when Steve still didn’t understanding, emphasizing whatever he meant with a shimmy of his hips back against Steve’s cock.

_It looks like he’s saying..._

_Do it?_

Steve tried mouthing the words himself, his lips forming what felt like similar shapes to those that Bucky repeated a fourth time. Breath catching – Steve didn’t want to _begin_ to think how that worked underwater – Steve tentatively brought a second tentacle against Bucky’s hole where it was already stretched wide. Water eddied around Steve’s sedate strokes, and he went still and poked at Bucky, awaiting confirmation.

Bucky nodded.

Blowing bubbles into the open waters, Steve calmed his anticipation.

_He’ll stop me if this isn’t what he wants..._

_...take it slow..._

_...don’t let my eagerness take control..._

Long moments passed as Steve strained to gain entry with a second cock. Bucky was open and willing but Steve’s tentacles weren’t small. Fitting one in that wonderful tight space was difficult, but fitting two? Steve wasn’t sure it was possible. Still, Bucky wanted it and said it was alright, and hell if Steve didn’t burn with the desire to feel that incredible squeeze around two of his cocks at once. Futile wiggling got him nowhere, Bucky shimmying and whimpering encouragement, and then all at once Bucky’s hole spread around him, stretched unbelievably, and Steve’s second cock slid in oh-so-slowly alongside the first. Bucky’s eyes slipped shut, expression slack with rapture, and all thought of haste and his own need gave way.

Bucky needed and wanted Steve.

That was enough.

Reaching out, he cupped the back of Bucky’s head and pulled him in for a kiss. A third tentacle wiggled against the two already in Bucky, and Bucky nodded against Steve, and with even more care he pressed in. Looking between their bodies, he could see the bulge of Bucky’s belly where Steve’s thick cocks stretched him, feel every heartbeat that thrummed through Bucky’s body. Steve’s last cock struggled to gain entry too, but three was Bucky’s limit – _three cocks, oh God!_ – and instead rutted the last against the other three and against Bucky’s hot, flushed skin. Bucky’s cock hung heavy and thick between his legs, flushed near purple with blood. Tendrils of white threaded through the water, clung to Bucky’s legs, streaked pale against Steve’s tentacles where they coiled and winded between Bucky’s thighs.

Steve closed his eyes. Vision, atop everything he tasted, everything he smelled, everything he heard, everything he felt, was far, _far_ too much sensation for him.

Thrusting wasn’t an option. Anyone normal person would have been in agony, spread as wide as Bucky was. Bucky seemed rapturous, and Steve wanted to make sure Bucky never felt anything but ecstasy. His tentacles twisted and writhed _inside_ Bucky, pressing against every sensitive place, and Bucky in turn twisted and writhed in Steve’s hold, desperate noises leaking from him.

A burst of hot liquid oozing over Bucky’s legs and Steve’s tentacle, distinct from the thinner water, was his only hint that Bucky had come.

A quiet voice in Steve’s mind dared to suggest that if Bucky had come, Steve should stop, but a single wave of pleasure obliterated that thought. Steve could no more stop than he could make the tides cease to beat against the shoreline.

He pushed deeper, delving into the tight heat of Bucky’s body, and Bucky clenched around him, whimpered, and an orgasm rocked through Steve, one of his cocks releasing copiously. Flailing, Steve slid that tentacle free, slid his sixth in, and Bucky whimpered approval and collapsed against Steve. Steve’s regular tentacles enfolded Bucky protectively, supported him, kept him afloat; his arms wrapped around Bucky’s back and cradled him. Steve tried to communicate with simple gestures the depths of his feelings.

_I want you to feel good._

Thrust.

_I want to be with you._

Thrust.

_I want to take care of you._

Thrust.

_I want to help you recover._

Thrust.

_I want to be the one you count on._

Thrust.

_I love you._

Thrust.

_I love you._

Thrust.

_I love you._

Thrust.

Bucky shivered and trembled against him, needy sounds inaudible but communicated to Steve clearly by the vibrations that passed between their joined bodies. Steve came again, but one of his first tentacles was stiff and throbbing again and he didn’t think before replacing his spent cock with the revived one. Hardness brushed against one of Steve’s tentacles: Bucky’s erection, hard once more, and Steve lost himself in sensation as he worshipped Bucky’s body with his own. He lost count of how many times he came, how many times Bucky came, how many times he pulled a limp tentacle free to thrust in with one that he’d thought spent but was now aching and leaking again. All he knew was that he wanted this to never end, wanted to spend the rest of his life replacing every terrible memory that Hydra had given Bucky with a memory of how much pleasure Steve could tease from him. Bucky never resisted, never suggested Steve stop; he gave himself over completely, took everything Steve gave, hinted with body language that he’d take more if Steve offered it, shuddered and clenched and relaxed and moaned brokenly.

For the first time, Steve profoundly understood the appeal Bucky had found in taking the lead, in treating Steve like he was special and delicate. When their positions had been reversed it had always made Steve feel weird, always left him feeling feminized and looked down on. Steve knew that wasn’t Bucky’s intention, but he couldn’t help his reaction, and nothing Bucky said communicated the pleasure Bucky derived from caring for Steve. Now, Steve got it. Seeing to Bucky made Steve feel powerful, but Steve’s power didn’t imply Bucky’s _lack_ of power. Steve was sensitive to every cue, alert to every twitch; Bucky could slay him with the merest flick of a finger, stop him with the lightest flinch of pain.

Bucky was the most powerful person in Steve’s world, and always would be.

Slowly, they sunk to the seafloor, bodies entwined, lost in their love-making. The world spun around them, the oceans flowed, and it could all burn as far as Steve was concerned.

Steve had Bucky.

Bucky had Steve.

Finally, exhausted, sated, content, and so in love he could have filled the Marianas Trench and still not run the font of his affection dry, Steve’s eyes slipped shut. Bucky snuggled up to him, lay his head on Steve’s shoulder, and went limp. Tentacles haloed around them, a single cock keeping Bucky full, keeping him comfortable. The bulge of Bucky’s belly pressed against Steve’s hip; though the one tentacle in him wasn’t enough to show through his skin, the copious come within him distending him, left Steve feeling smug and possessive.

 _I did that to him. All that inside of him? That’s me. That’s...really weird...but damn if knowing that doesn’t feel_ amazing _._

_I hope Bucky likes the way it feels, too._

Looping a tentacle between them, Steve massaged at the bump, wiggled his other tentacle within Bucky, and Bucky leaked soft, pleased noises that Steve would have called coos coming from anyone else.

To that lovely, content sound, Steve lulled to sleep and let the currents carry them where they would.

* * *

The breeze brushing strands of salt-encrusted hair against Steve’s face tickled him awake. Bucky lay asleep in his arms, breathing slowly and evenly. They were tangled together, pieces of seaweed interspersed with Steve’s tentacles to grant Bucky a semblance of modesty. The waters receded from where they’d washed up on the shore, and though Steve couldn’t say for certain – one Caribbean island looked much like any other – he thought they were on Starkland once again. Reaching up, Steve brushed the locks of Bucky’s hair from his own face, brushed them from Bucky’s face, and Bucky blinked awake.

“Tell me we’re done,” mumbled Bucky.

Alarm tensed Steve’s chest. “Yeah – yes, I am, if you want to be, I mean, I am anyway, and...and hell, I’m sorry, I—”

“Woah, Nelly,” Bucky managed. “Did you just...did you just _apologize_ to me for the best sex I’ve ever had? Or at least the best sex I can ever remember having?”

“Is it the _only_ sex you can remember having?” said Steve, the tension easing, replaced with joy and a replete feeling. Bucky glared at him, and he smiled.

“No, it’s not the only...damn it, Steve, I’m a brainwash victim, not a monk.” Bucky’s tone was light though tired.

“So that was good?” asked Steve.

“That was fantastic,” Bucky agreed. “Gimme about six hours to heal up and we can do it again.”

“And you were worried we wouldn’t have anything to do on the island,” Steve chuckled. “Alright, maiden fair, what say you we repair to the Stark villa for some much needed, hard-earned R&R?”

“I like this plan,” Bucky murmured. He sounded like he was falling asleep again. “If I’m maiden fair, does that make you Robin Hood?”

“I guess,” Steve said.

Standing was difficult, but he got his tentacles under him, got his arms around Bucky, and looked around to get his bearings. They were definitely back on Stark’s island, and from what Steve recalled of the maps he’d inspected, the house was maybe a quarter mile down the coast. Steve hefted Bucky, a cock still firm inside him, the smooth rise of Bucky’s tummy yet jiggling with Steve’s come, and Steve felt...

...good. ...sated. ...proud. ...happy. ...satisfied. ...content.

“I call foul,” muttered Bucky. “Errol Flynn? Way hotter than you.”

“I know,” Steve grumbled, starting the walk. The forest had looked dense from a distance, but up close the trees were scattered and the undergrowth parted easily before Steve’s two leading tentacles. “You told me. Repeatedly. _How_ many times did you drag me to see that flick?”

“Gotta be...” Bucky yawned. “...least one more. Don’t remember.”

“Maybe there’s a theater on St. Thomas,” said Steve thoughtfully. “We’ve got a war’s worth of movies to catch up on.”

“Another good way to kill the time.” Bucky tucked his face against Steve’s chest, curled his metal arm around one of the tentacles that Steve used to carry him, and let his eyes slip shut.

“Something tells me we’re not going to have any problems,” Steve said.

“Something tells me that we’re gonna have _scads_ of problems,” said Bucky. “But I don’t mind. Can’t think of anyone I’d rather tackle those problems with then you. You’re it for me, Stevie.”

“Back atcha, Buck. I’m with ya for the long haul.”

“ ‘Til the end of the line.”

The house came into view, solid stone construction incongruous on the sandy shores, wide windows overlooking the ocean. Steve smiled.

“And beyond. I love you, Bucky.”

“Love ya...squid...but..." Bucky trailed off and cold fear trickled down Steve's sun- and sex-warmed body. "...but ya promised me puppies...”

Steve laughed, with joy, relief, and love. “We’ll get a puppy,” he promised. "So many puppies."

"Perfect," murmured Bucky. "Christ, you're perfect."

Bucky pressed his smile against Steve’s chest, closed his eyes, and fell into a peaceful sleep as Steve carried him through the entry to the house.

_...‘til death do us part..._

_Sleep well, my love._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> drum roll please...cobaltmoony's art, that I claimed and write this story about! 
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> *happy sigh* I love it so much, and I have stared at it so so so so so much since the moment I saw it. 
> 
> Funny story: so I'm chatting with cyborgtopus about art claims, and initially I'd planned to wait and see what was left after the initial frenzy, but then I saw this art and was like !!!!!! MUST WRITE THE THING so I showed it her and she was like !!!!! YOU MUST WRITE THE THING. The problem was, claims were at midnight my local time and I work an early morning schedule. Staying up that late? Not an option. cyborgtopus is on the opposite coast from me (I'm East Coast US, she's West Coast) so it was only 9 PM her time, and she agreed to proxy for me, to get everything set and push the button right at 9 PM. She got "our" vote in third of every claims vote. The next morning I found out...it had been her birthday!! She sacrificed her birthday night so that I could be the one to get to create a story for this absolutely breathtaking piece of art work. I feel so lucky, to have worked with her and trainedunprofessional as my betas and cheerleaders. 
> 
> And I especially want to shout out a huge thank you to cobaltmoony. She helped me figure out this plot, and has been beyond supportive at every step of the way. Her acceptance that I might not finish on time, and her encouragement that I do my best even if I ended up going late and that she didn't mind, meant the world to me and really took the pressure off - and is honestly probably WHY I finished on time, because I was getting so stressed I was working more slowly, but knowing she was okay whatever happened made all the difference.
> 
> Thank you for reading everyone, and thanks for your supportive comments, and just...thanks for everything!
> 
> If you're on Tumblr, you can find me at [unforth-ninawaters](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com/)
> 
> cobaltmoony's primary blog is [cobaltmoony](https://cobaltmoony.tumblr.com/), and she has an art blog at [cobaltmoonysart](https://cobaltmoonysart.tumblr.com/).
> 
> If you enjoyed the story, [there's a master post for it here](http://unforth-ninawaters.tumblr.com/post/162585882953/project-kraken-an-art-and-fic-collaboration-for), maybe consider reblogging it and helping spread the word?
> 
> <3
> 
> THANK YOU!
> 
> (and to my fellow USAdians, happy 4th of July!)


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